


Renovatio

by AlfadogThunder



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Abuse, Acceptance, Action/Adventure, Anger, Anxiety, Depression, Drama, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Healing, Heartbreak, Internal Conflict, Love, Nature Versus Nurture, Other, Passion, Poetic, Rebirth, Romance Novel, Self-Acceptance, Sensual Play, Sensuality, Sexual Content, Spiritual, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 95,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23947099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlfadogThunder/pseuds/AlfadogThunder
Summary: Christine struggles with depression and hysteria, having lost herself in a 7-year marriage to the Vicomte. Having twin girls; one who bears a birthmark across half of her face, the three travel to the countryside of Lourmarin, as Raoul's family will not accept this child. It is there, where Christine's demons subside, and where she falls desperately into the arms of a mysterious and powerful man with half a marred face.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 237
Kudos: 165
Collections: Phantom of the opera, The Phantom of the Opera





	1. The Birthmark

**Author's Note:**

> The characters Christine, Raoul, and Erik within this lustrous, heartbreaking, adventurous tale are not owned by me, but will be created and formed in different ways than perhaps you have seen them. They are not my characters, yet I make them my own, so please bear with me as you will see many changes within them that I have decided to make for the sake of my story. As for the rest of the characters, they are all my own. 
> 
> As for the title of the story, Renovatio is Latin for a renewal, a restoration, and a re-birth.
> 
> This tale takes place 7 years after Christine performed and belonged to the Opera Populaire. The strange affair of the "Phantom" had never happened...for there had been no Phantom within the Opera House. (Do not fret, there IS still an Erik). Christine has been married to Raoul for 7 years, and the identical twins are both 7 years old. 
> 
> As for Erik, he will be radically different from anything you have ever read; I am choosing for him to have been formed in the outside world, a world where he never hid from his deformity, yet brandishes it like a weapon, and wears it proudly (this will be seen in chapters to come.) 
> 
> As for the song Christine sings, it is not owned by me, but by Steven Sondheim (best known from Sweeney Todd, but I prefer the version sang by Barbara Streisand, as it correlates best with Christine’s voice.) The song is called “Not while I’m around.”
> 
> Enough from me. Please enjoy the beginning of this lustrous and romantic adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “She died - this was the way she died;  
> And when her breath was done,  
> Took up her simple wardrobe  
> And started for the sun.  
> Her little figure at the gate  
> The angels must have spied,  
> Since I could never find her  
> Upon the mortal side.” 
> 
> \- Emily Dickinson

The parlor was dimly lit, the light of several candles dispersed about the room standing in clusters, wax dripping down their towers like teardrops falling. The flickers interlaced with the stuffy air, whispering, marking intricate shadows across the walls that were covered in ornately framed paintings. In one corner of the room, a dark mahogany table stood alone amongst the shelves of books and paintings; a devil’s table, filled with carved glass decanters, elegant and quiet; huddled together like ladies waiting under a rooftop for a storm to pass through. 

He stood in front of her, an unusual gleam within his eyes, stranger and more distant than she’d ever seen them before. He was changing – no, he _had_ been changing…she just hadn’t brought herself to admit the truth of it until it spilled over; spilling onto her, into her…to a place where she could not deny it anymore. 

“Raoul,” she spoke softly, trying to untangle her thoughts as they hissed from her insides, a horde of snakes that wove and bit, mocking her, terrifying her... 

“This _cannot_ happen. You cannot agree to this…this is our child! Our little angel…” her voice broke, teetering upon the brink of tears. No, she thought furiously. _I will not cry anymore…I’ve cried too many a night to this infestation within my heart, this sick disease that he puts upon our lives…no more. Who has he become…? Why is he different from the man I knew, so many years ago…?_

Her thoughts were infringed upon by Raoul’s tense voice, shattering her inner stream of consciousness; a rock flung through an fragile glass window. 

“Christine, I’ve tried reasoning with them, I have! There’s nothing more I can say, nothing more I can do! And although I love her, with all of my heart – this you must understand – it must be so. I will send her somewhere where she will be safe, away from the eye of the public – the De Chagny family will not allow for her to represent us…in any sort of negative way. They…they refuse to allow her to take the De Chagny name.” 

“ _They refuse?_ As if it is any business of theirs, disowning a child that does not even _belong_ to them!” Christine cried out before her mind could stop the words from flowing, her voice on the verge of a scream. A dangerous swirl of waters was building up within her; it wouldn’t be much longer until the thoughts released themselves from the dam she had built up for years…until her mind completely unraveled, until she succumbed to the insatiable itch to run to the nearest rooftop and fling herself off… _You can escape from this! One step, just one…that’s all it would take…_ she shook her head, veering her mind back to the heated argument that rose and spread like a forest fire, destroying everything in its earthen path. 

“It is a _birthmark,_ Raoul! On her face, yes, but she is beautiful, nonetheless! If they can’t see that…then what kind of people are they? _Monsters_! That’s what kind! And they have absolutely _no_ right to tell us what to do with our children!” 

“But they do, Christine,” he cut in. “And that’s something you don’t seem to quite understand.” Raoul strode to the corner of the room, picking up a glass carefully in his hands. He poured rich amber liquid from a perfectly crafted decanter into the glass. As he took a deep drink, he barely winced as the whiskey, the _venom_ slid down his throat. There he stood, rooted to the spot, gripping his glass…staring blankly out of the floor length window. The night was seeping into the horizon, pulling shadows over the mansion, hiding itself from God’s eyes that reached from above. 

Desperation knitted itself into her skin, as she felt her words meant nothing to him. He stood as if unfazed by anything that came spouting from her lips, and again, she was silently reminded that she _still_ played the role, the role of silence, of submission…a role she had followed obediently for seven years. 

“You listen to _them_!” she spat suddenly, gripping the back of the armchair that she stood behind; her posture curling forward like a prowling beast. “You let them fill your head with things of this world that _do not matter!_ What will the public think? What will become of the De Chagny bloodline if _this thing_ is to be seen? Is that it now? You _agree_ with them? You would cast out your own daughter, you would let your parents’ words infect you like…like _poison?”_ Christine was in tears now. Her resentment was overflowing, raging inside of her, outside of her, now…she stared at him, he who seemed unaffected by any of her words; and her nails dug even deeper into the armchair’s plush surface. 

Raoul finally turned to half face her; a frown cast upon his face. “These are matters you do not understand Christine. I will not shout at you, nor do I understand your reason to speak to me in such a way. You knew, when we were married…you knew what you were marrying into! How else can I explain it? What more do you want me to say? That I should cast out my own mother and father’s orders? I could be… _disowned_! Is that what you want?! And…and what if I told you I…agree with them?” 

Christine let go of the armchair, defeated, her hands hanging limp at her sides. She averted her eyes from his figure, choosing her next words quite carefully. “You…you agree?” 

Raoul turned around to face her, taking another sip from his glass. “Christine, this gives me headaches as we go around and around, arguing like children! For God’s sake, you act as if I do not love her. I am trying to protect her, properly, as a father should! Do you want her to be _mocked_? To be known as the De Chagny’s _freak_? Born with half a purple face? I will not stand for it! I will not. And that is precisely why I agree with my mother and father. They mean well. They want to protect her, just as I do, and as you should as well. Put your heart aside Christine; this is what we must do for Lillian’s protection.” 

“They mean _well_? They don’t even _know_ her! So that’s it then…you’d send her away…” she whimpered, tears falling like dribbles of blood down her pale face; the face of a broken doll, thrown away into the depths of a dank and cold attic. “You’d send her away, and then what? What would become of her? She _needs_ me…I am her _mother!_ And you think this is what a father should do? _No_ …my father would have _never_ given me up. Even with a birthmark such as hers. He would have kept me closer, and loved me and…” her voice faded off as she silently began to sob. 

Raoul sighed, frustrated with her incessant whirlwind of emotion. “I understand your feelings. Really Christine, I do. But your father was not a _Vicomte_ , he was not _royalty_ by any means…I say this wishing not to offend you…I am trying to do what is best…and I’m terribly tired of arguing.” He finished the rest of his glass and set it carefully onto the lonely wooden table in the corner. “I’m so very tired of arguing about this. She _will_ be sent away; not far, we can still visit her from time to time, everything will be alright…you must trust me, Christine.” 

Christine stared down at the intricately woven carpet beneath her feet. For a moment, she was back at the Opera Populaire; standing before her father’s grave, crying in the snow with frozen droplets of ice in her hair…for a moment, she was without Raoul, before he had ever come and swept her off of her feet, promising her a life as the _Vicomtesse De Chagny_ …and she had agreed; yet within this agreement, she had lost something precious, something that could not be bought; she had lost her identity. The music had left years ago, and the dancing was suppressed, only to be utilized strictly at parties; at gatherings where the men smoked cigars and spoke of money, and the women gathered only to gossip – usually, about her… _a lowborn chorus girl marrying a Vicomte…did he feel pity for her? Or did she seduce him into a marriage by bedding him? What could a Vicomte want with a ballet rat…a Prima Donna with a short-lived career?_ The words stung her even now, as she remembered overhearing them. Her face flushed with embarrassment, humiliation, and an emptiness that seemed to grow larger by the waking second. 

She only sang to herself now, at night, when no one was around to hear….and sometimes to the twins, when they begged… And the voice Raoul had once loved now seemed to be an ordinary and useless tool; a fragment to which he always swept to the side, back into Christine’s heart where it stayed locked; a nightingale tethered in a cage. 

She looked up at last, finally meeting his prodding gaze. His eyes were weary and cold; hardened, glinting without any emotion, without empathy or understanding. He had taken on new and prestigious roles in his life, ones in which she could not play a part. She knew her part very well; for it was the part unspoken, the role to which no words or singing were assigned; a script that life itself seemed to curl around her wrists like chains. 

She was required to follow him around at events, tight lipped and smiling; she was made to hide her old self away, to toss it into the depths – and Raoul did not seem to mind. He never had noted the change within her; in fact, it seemed to please him greatly, her silence…yet she felt she had been bleeding on the inside for years, longing to sing, to be swept into his arms…but the memories were never enough, and the kisses were short and terse; it was never enough, _it was_ _never enough_ … 

“I will go with her,” she spoke finally, her voice sounding more resilient than the way she felt inside. “I will go with her.” 

Raoul raised his light brown eyebrows in perfect arches. “You will do no such thing. Your place is here, by my side, as the Vicomtesse…Christine, you do not intend to leave me for this? This is _folly_. I will not hear another word of it. We shall talk in the morning. I am spent.” 

Christine felt herself nod, slipping back into the quiet chains of her role. She had lost her voice; her singing…for the nightingale had drowned, long ago, and her music seemed lost to the wind, impossible to trace down or to find again. “I shall stay up a bit longer,” she replied, almost a whisper; he moved past her without a word, exiting the parlor. 

Christine gathered herself for a moment, pushing the feelings of indescribable sadness down; forcing them deep enough where they would not again rear their disgusting heads. She moved slowly to the table in the corner, pouring a glass of amber liquid, just as he had. She drank deeply from the glass, and it stung her insides; but then came the release, the plateau of settled numbness. She left the empty glass on the table, crossing the room in a dreamlike state; and thus began the path down the carpeted corridor toward the twin’s bedroom. 

The door was cracked slightly at the end of the landing, and she could hear musical laughter seeping from the inside. A small smile touched the corners of her lips, and she stepped deftly over to the stream of light that lit the blackness of the corridor, a pillar of golden hue in her darkly and poorly etched world. 

The bedroom was sizeable and brightly lit with two glass lamps. The twins sat together on a rich maroon rug that covered a large expanse of the wooded floor. They were holding their dolls; two matching rag dolls with yellow spun yarn hair, each dressed exactly the same. And there they sat, perfectly alike in every way; light brown curls that poured down their backs, and each with a set of identical hazel eyes. They would be mirrors of the other, if not for Lillian’s face; for the deep purple birthmark that covered the entire right side of her porcelain skin, brimming across the ridge of her nose. Her hazel eyes shone almost golden, one glinting more brightly than the other, surrounded by the purplish hue of her skin. 

“ _Maman_!” They shouted gleefully, in unison, abandoning their dolls on the carpet as they rushed into their mother’s welcoming arms. “We are playing a game,” announced Marie, the twin with the unmarred face. “Our dolls are both princesses, and they are journeying to a far off place…a castle in a distant land!” 

“Oh, how lovely, my darlings,” Christine murmured against their hair. “You are both my heart, for I, too, dream of this castle!” 

The twins laughed, hugging her even tighter. “ _Maman,_ we need a song…a song for the princesses! A song to give them the courage to travel,” Lillian exclaimed, looking up at Christine with wide and wondrous eyes. “Will you sing?” 

“Oh yes, will you? Oh please _maman!_ It’s been _days_ since we have heard any of your melodies,” Marie chimed in. They stood back from their mother, a young and beautiful queen in their eyes, crowned with chestnut curls that were twisted into an ornate bun at the nape of her neck. Everything about her was perfect to them; especially her melodious and elusive songs that only came at night. 

Christine laughed, although it felt strained in her throat. She let the numbness of the whiskey pass through her, washing away the conversation that sat rotting away in the recesses of her mind. “Yes, my loves, I shall, but _only_ for you.” 

The twins scrambled into their large four-poster bed and under a thick quilt, tucking their dolls beside them as they nestled into the pillows. “We’re ready!” Marie sang, and there they lay, snuggled against each other; two hearts beating as one. Christine’s heart wailed, but her face did not betray the depths of her spirit, of the fear that grew prickling and hot against her flesh. 

She perched on the edge of the soft and lustrous bed, leaning close to her girls where they lay snug in their bed, propping herself up onto her elbows. She closed her eyes, and she was back there again, on the stage of her beloved Opera Populaire. The stage lights were scalding against her cheeks, and the words of a thousands stories welled up inside her soul, ready to be unleashed upon the world… 

“ _Nothing’s gonna harm you,_

_Not while I’m around…_

_Nothing’s gonna harm you, no sir!_

_Not while I’m around…_

_Demons are prowling everywhere,_

_Nowadays…_

_I’ll send them howling, I don’t care, I’ve got ways…_

_No one’s gonna hurt you,_

_No one’s gonna dare…_

_Others can desert you,_

_Not to worry, whistle I’ll be there!_

_Demons will charm you with their smile, for a while,_

_But in time…_

_Nothing can harm you,_

_Not while I’m around…”_

She held the last note gently until it faded into the soft breeze that swirled in from the window. Christine opened her eyes; the twins were sound asleep, their arms curled around their dolls; identical dolls… _for identical girls_ , Christine thought. Raoul’s words sat hunched in the back of her mind, a prowling monster out of a nightmare, waiting to break the bars on its cage. _A birthmark is nothing…she is still identical to me,_ she thought, shoving the words of the nights’ argument to the back of her mind. Yet, the words she had sung stayed flowing within her veins; a river of melancholy, rushing wretchedness that seemed never ending…yet, she could not shake the sudden feeling of hope, of strength that the song had brought her. There _would_ be a way. She would do anything. She could not send this child, her Lillian away, to anywhere…and if she was forced to, then she would bring Marie and go wherever Lillian went. _I will not separate my girls. Nor will I let ridiculous aristocracy tear me from my daughters._ The words of her song seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, and Christine felt another surge of courage, of strange power. The melody had given her a memory of her old self; yes, to feel energy and wind coursing through her vocal cords again…it had reminded her of herself, of a woman she had hidden away, so very long ago… 

_Not while I’m around…_

Christine kissed both of them softly on their foreheads before turning down the lamps, thrusting the room into complete and total darkness. The open window’s curtains rustled with a tender breeze, and the only light now was the lantern of the moon, a brilliant and distant star. Christine stared out for a moment, losing herself in the night sky, dreaming of the woman who used to sing, who belted out her soul to thousands of people… she could almost hear the applause ringing in her ears, deafening, blocking out the hysteric circles of thoughts for simply a moment… 

_“Demons will charm you with a smile, for a while,_

_But in time…_

_Nothing can harm you,_

_Not while I’m around…”_ she sang out into the night air; to no one, and the wind greeted her face warmly. She smiled a gentle smile, taking one glance back at the sleeping twins, and she quietly latched the window, cutting off the night air; the window that screamed out, beckoning her, _even then_ …yet just before she latched the window, she could almost hear a bird of sorts, perhaps a nightingale, singing kindly in the distance…an echo, a response of sorts to the pain she had relinquished. And if the bird could speak to her, the bird might understand… 

_You in the darkness, you_

_From the window…_

_You from the tallest of trees._

_You with your sorrow,_

_Tell me tomorrow,_

_You, amidst the dark_

_Of the breeze._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback, emotions, or comments are greatly appreciated.


	2. Hysteria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I don't want to see anyone. I lie in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and nothingness washing over me like a sluggish wave. Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can't even see it, something that's drowning me. I am inadequate and stupid, without worth. I might as well be dead.”
> 
> \- Margaret Atwood

Sunbeams spilled across the edge of the bed as Christine opened her eyes. She lay tangled in silken sheets, praying a silently as the room slowly filled with the golden light of morning.

_God…let him see, let him understand…change his heart. Only you can do such things, only you…_

She sat up suddenly, frantically ripping the sheets from her legs; an entanglement of sickening sweat from her restless sleep. _The time…what is the time? How long have I slept?_

Not bothering to properly dress, she threw on a crimson silk robe over her sweat soaked nightgown. She quickly glanced into the full-length mirror in the far corner of the bedroom, ceasing all movement abruptly…as she felt strangely far away from the reflection that stared back at her. The woman in the mirror stared back, but it was not she. It couldn’t possibly be.

_A woman in blood red._

The mirror reflected a woman whose eyes were red…swollen from the terrified crying that had taken place the night prior, in the parlor…her hair was disheveled; a curly storm of dark brown that framed a pallid, worn face.

Christine shook her head, tearing her eyes from the mirror. It was far from her now, but as the moments crawled on, it seemed to creep across the floor to her, calling her in fragmented whispers…so that maybe, she might look again. So that she might be forced to see, to truly see…the woman that stared in the mirror.

Christine pushed the thoughts away. She shoved them down deep, repressing the truths her mind had wound around for months, and even, perhaps years. The thoughts were like twine coiling up, spinning and winding…tangling themselves with the strings of her heart that seemed to wither away with each breath.

She hastily pinned up her curls, not bothering to sweep any blush onto her thin, colorless cheeks. Christine felt an abrupt sense of urgency, as if something horrific was writhing inside of her, something she could not ignore anymore…something that begged – no, _threatened_ to release itself. It was the mirror, again. Her reflection, again…and the whispering inside of her mind.

She left the bedroom and immediately heard the distant laughter of the twins from their bedroom at the end of the hall. Her body moved slowly, as if not upon its own accord… and instead of running to greet her girls as she usually did every morning, she turned and stalked down the landing to the upstairs parlor. Raoul would be there; it was where he drank his coffee every morning, usually browsing newspapers and articles as the sun crept in through the ceiling length windows.

The parlor door was cracked. Before Christine could control the impulse, she swung the door wide open and treaded into the room with a crazed sense of confidence, and a stranger feeling leaking from her heart that was indescribable…was it a maniacal feeling of knowing? Of knowing how close she teetered on the edge of all things?

Raoul sat at his expansive mahogany desk, surrounded by yellowed papers and stacks of books. His long brown hair was tied back neatly, and his brow was furrowed, concentrated on his morning reading. He looked up at her, startled not only by her unexpected entrance, but at her disheveled and hysteric appearance. He saw fear in her eyes, and something else…anger? Hatred? Mania…?

“Raoul,” the tone of her voice surprised him, as it cut the into silence of the peaceful morning; a blade slicing into a sweet and soft spot of skin. “I need to speak with you. _Now_.”

He sighed, putting a paper down that he had been engorged in. His grey blue eyes softened as he gazed upon her. “My dear, you don’t look well…have you even slept? Your…your eyes…”

She ignored his observation of her haphazard and bizarre appearance. Raoul noted that she hadn’t worn crimson red in years. She had always told him it reminded her of spilt blood, something Raoul found to be unpleasant and morbid to even think of.

Yet, here she stood in front of him, clad in blood red that matched her agitated bloodshot eyes. Her hair was pinned back loosely, and he noticed that she had barely even attempted to look presentable. He frowned. This was quite unlike her…

“Lillian, the twins… I will take them to the cottage in _Lourmarin_. You said so yourself that it was your favorite cottage because of how remote it was, how far from Paris, the public eye…what better place to take our girls? Remember when you took me there? It was like out of a dream…”

Raoul watched intently as her breathing quickened with each word she spoke aloud. She was in a panic, her face was eerie; wraithlike, and she looked much thinner than a week ago…

“Christine,” he said softly, not wanting to drive her over the imminent edge that he realized she was swaying upon… “Christine, of course the cottage is lovely, but…are you suggesting…is this…” he faltered, searching for the right words. “You’d leave my side to take the girls away? There is no need for Marie to go, of course, she should stay here, as well as you…”

His voiced trailed off, all intensity lost at the sight of Christine’s eyes as soon as those words had left his lips. Her eyes widened; two large pools of red, twin ponds of blood… “You would _expect_ I send Lillian off by herself? This is what you’re making me do? It is a path I cannot go! It is a path I cannot even _fathom_!” she was screaming, now. Tears rippled from the pink corners of her eyes, and her lips quivered; dry and full, bitten up by her impending anxiety.

“You put a _plague_ upon our family. Our household. On _me_! You ask the impossible, Raoul! I said I would love you, no matter what the cost, no matter what happened…but you ask me to send away our daughter? Our _flesh_ , our _blood_? Our _angel_?!”

Raoul could see her hysteria clearly now, breaking forth into the room, changing the atmosphere – the rising of a storm. He could almost hear thunder, an ironic juxtaposition of the room that was filled with soft sunlight and a warm, easy breeze.

“Christine, my love…” he spoke gently, not tense and cold like he had spoken the night before. Seeing her like this pained his heart, and for a moment, he suddenly felt trapped by the horrid situation – _what am I to do?_

“My love, my love…” he said softly, almost a whisper, standing up at his desk. He walked towards her slowly, cupping her face into his hands, kissing her upon swollen and bitten up lips. “You are sickened by this, this whole situation…and I have been terribly cold to you…what you ask of me is not too much. It isn’t…. I…I merely want you _here_ , with me, by my side…as we promised each other we would always be.”

She looked deep into the grey of his eyes; they had softened and changed once more…just as dust rose and fell with the wind, he was back to her, sweeping her off of her feet, laughing with her, dreaming with her…she pushed the memories out of her mind. _He is listening,_ she repeated to herself. _God is listening…_

“I do wish to be by your side. I do not wish to leave you, Raoul…but your family and their relentless orders to have Lillian sent away _plague_ me. I cannot eat, I cannot drink, I cannot breathe…I have to get out of here, for a little while. I must be with my girls, our girls…I must be with them…” she began to crumple in his arms, and he caught her by the elbows, shocked to feel them bony underneath the tips of his fingers. Sobs wracked her body uncontrollably then, and all Raoul could think to do was hold her, this broken woman. _I have broken her;_ he thought… _I have lost her, and she has lost herself…God, what have I done? What can I do? How can I take away this plague I have caused her?_

“Christine,” he said softly, stroking her tangled curls. “I want you to feel well again. I want to see the light in your eyes again, my love…and if going to our cottage in _Lourmarin_ with the girls will soothe your heart…I can’t see why or how I can possibly stand in your way. I only wanted…Lillian to be safe. I won’t let her be scrutinized by the gossip of Paris, and my family’s opinions…”

Christine still sat crumpled on the floor, with Raoul’s arms around her, slowly looked up at him… “You…you are saying…we can go? You will not take her away from me?”

Raoul sighed a deep and painful sigh. “As much as I do not like the idea of the three of you being so far from me, I will allow it…as it will solve the issue of Lillian, but mother and father will surely disapprove of you leaving…they will say it is unheard of for a Countess to leave her husbands side…but of course, I will send maids with you, for the cottage, and a couple of my men for protection...”

“No.” Christine said sharply. “ _No_. I will go with the girls, alone. Don’t you see, Raoul? I am not myself…I have not been in a long time. I fear I am losing who I am…and now I don’t know where to begin, who to be…I am losing myself. I am constantly anxious around your family; I see the way they look at me, as if I am some common filth off the street that you decided to marry! I see it in your mother’s eyes! Who am I to be? How am I to play this part? This role…it is as if I’ve been handed a script and I’m expected to memorize it and repeat it back to you, to them…and you…” her voice broke then, suddenly frantic that she had revealed too much. But her chest was heaving, and her heart pounded faster and faster, a thousand stallions running wild through a dark and dense forest.

“You. You look at me differently too,” she finally whispered, fear panging in her heart as the words sliced the air. “You are never around, you never sing with me anymore, you never…”

“Christine…my God! You know what my family expects of me…I promise I do not look at you any differently than when I first saw you perform at the Opera Populaire…or even as when we knew each other as children…I am simply expected to hold a title, a standard, in society now…things have changed, don’t you see? But that doesn’t mean they have to be bad. We wanted a life together, and that’s what we’ve made…can’t you see the beauty in that? In what I’ve given you? In what we have together?” his voice sounded hurt now, but she almost welcomed the hurt…it was an emotion she had not seen from him in months.

“You speak these words, but you do not see me. You do not see what’s happening to me, here, in this place, in this role…it’s not just about Lillian, Raoul. I must get out of Paris. I feel broken inside, worse than when my father died…I feel as though I don’t know myself anymore…” she trailed off, sobs quivering through her thin body, threatening to shatter her into a million tiny pieces.

Raoul sat with her on the floor, as she lay broken and sickly, gathered in his arms. Fear coursed through his body now, as her words lashed into him now, a cat o’ nine tails whip stinging through the air… “I won’t lose you, Christine,” he whispered, stroking her curls again. “Perhaps you are right, the cottage will do well for you…for all of you,” he said at last, forcing the words to sound confident as he spoke. “I have been coarse, I feel…I have not seen you breaking here, right in front of me. And for that, I may not ever be able to forgive myself.”

Christine looked up at him again, her uncontrollable sobs finally subsiding. The robe around her formed a lake of blood, silky and sweet, thick and rotting… _a woman in blood red._

“You have given me what I needed,” she said at last, giving his hand a weak squeeze. “I have truly been sick over this for the past week, even the past month…I felt as though I were slowly dying…”

Raoul stood up, suddenly unable to hear anymore. His heart ached for the callous way he had become, and he longed for the days when their marriage was renewed and free, a fresh blossom picked from the branch of a wise and withered tree. _I have broken her,_ he thought. _When I married her I thought I was freeing her, when truly I had just bound her, put her in chains…_ he shook his head. The pain was a stabbing in his gut, pain he had pushed away into a deep and hidden place…it was too much. He pushed it deeper, refusing to admit that maybe, she would have been better off a free woman, unbranded with his family name, and all the sickness and chains that came with it…

“I love you,” he whispered to her. “I will do whatever you ask. I want you to be whole again.”

She sat on the wooded floor, her bleeding robe crumpled around her, staring up at him, her eyes almost childlike; those deep brown eyes he had fallen for so many years ago… “When can we depart?” she asked weakly.

“Tell me you love me. Please, Christine…I…”

She sighed, her breathing ragged as she traced a knot in the wooden floor. “I love you,” she murmured, avoiding his eyes…she couldn’t look, not now, not after everything that had been said. “I just need time, Raoul…I need time to find myself again.”

He nodded, slowly walking away from where she lay crumpled, a wilted bleeding rose. He stood by one of the floor length windows, staring out into the world, his heart feeling numb, and his eyes stinging wet with sudden vicious tears. He quickly wiped them away before she could see.

“I will have the maids prepare a carriage today, for the three of you. You can depart as early as tomorrow morning, if you like.” His voice sounded far away, and again, just as Christine had thought, he was fading…his emotions drained out of him, an emptied and broken vase.

“Th…thank you. I shall begin packing today…and of course I will tell the twins...and have a maid assist with their belongings…” _It will be an adventure for them,_ she thought, suddenly overwhelmed with relief and exhaustion all at the same time. She stood up slowly, as the folds of vermillion fell around her, brushing against her legs as if to comfort her, to give her strength. _A woman in blood red…_ she thought.

_And that woman is me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know your thoughts so far! Any feedback, emotions, or comments are welcome! I love to see what my readers are thinking and feeling.


	3. A place where we are free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place simultaneously with the previous chapter, Hysteria. The song the twins sing is important, as you will hear it in later chapters. I also apologize for the shortness of this chapter, but don’t fret, longer chapters lay ahead very soon.

A maid, an older woman wearing an apron lined with white lace, entered the door at the end of the landing. She knocked twice, then opened the door and entered the bedroom. “Girls,” she announced sternly, “it is half past nine! Time to wash up and get ready for your breakfast.”

The twins lay curled up in the large four-poster bed on the left side of the room, snuggled inside the thick woolen quilt, clutching their yarn dolls in their arms. They slowly began to rub the sleep out of their eyes.

“Esther! But I was having such a good dream,” Marie complained.

“Well, child, all good things come to an end at some point,” Esther retorted. She pulled open the long silky curtains to each window, and the sun blazed across the bed and the room, causing the twins to cry out in protest. “Now then, girls, up! Come now, go wash up, your mother will be expecting you downstairs! Do I have to supervise everything you do? Or can you manage on your own? Hm?”

“We can manage, Esther! I promise we will wash up quickly and will be downstairs very soon!” Lillian said brightly, ignoring her sister’s groans of protest. Esther curtly nodded, then left the room as swiftly as she had entered it.

“She’s mean. I don’t like her at all,” Marie said rubbing her eyes again, looking at Lillian. “She said all good things end. I don’t think she’s ever had a good dream before!”

Lillian laughed. “Come on! Let’s get ready on our own before she comes back. I always hate when she watches us. We can do it on our own!”

Marie smiled. “Okay. I guess so. Maybe it will make her leave us alone today…” The girls both giggled.

Soon enough, both had quickly washed up and dressed; Lillian chose a sky blue dress with black stockings, and her sister donned a yellow frock, complaining the whole time she put the same black stockings on. “These are too itchy, I don’t like them!”

“I know,” Lillian replied, “But Esther insists we wear them. Don’t really know why she gets to pick out our clothes. I wish I could wear pants, like _Papa_!” Both girls laughed at this outlandish idea. “Maybe _Maman_ will make some for us to play in!” Lillian said brightly.

Both girls walked down the landing, dolls in hand, when they heard a pained voice crying out, almost screaming. They both froze, recognizing the voice of their mother. It was coming from their father’s upstairs parlor, at the other end of the hall.

Marie motioned for Lillian. “Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s go listen.”

“Esther told us to wait downstairs! Besides, _Papa_ says eavesdropping is _bad…_ ” Lillian whispered back fiercely.

“Well I’m going! What if _Maman_ is in trouble? She needs us!” Marie announced indignantly in a harsher whisper, and began creeping down the hallway, silent as a cat preying upon an mouse; each movement stealthy, slow, and deliberate.

Lillian quietly rushed after her sister. “You always get me into trouble, Marie,” she began, but upon reaching the door, both of the girls stopped in horror as they began to hear the conversation quite clearly…

_“You would expect I send Lillian off by herself? This is what you’re making me do? It is a path I cannot go! It is a path I cannot even fathom! You put a plague upon our family. Our household. On me! You ask the impossible, Raoul! I said I would love you, no matter what the cost, no matter what happened…but you ask me to send away our daughter? Our flesh, our blood? Our angel?!”_

Their father’s response was too soft to hear. Marie pulled back from the door, horrified, and reached over to tug her sister away from the door. “Lillian…” she said softly, but Lillian ignored her, pressing her ear to the door further, a wild expression on her face that Marie had never seen before; shock, anger…and a terrible and deep sadness.

_“I do wish to be by your side. I do not wish to leave you, Raoul…but your family and their relentless orders to have Lillian sent away plague me. I cannot eat, I cannot drink, I cannot breathe…I have to get out of here, for a little while. I must be with my girls, our girls…I must be with them…”_

It was enough for Lillian to hear. She fled down the hallway away from the door, away from Marie, and slammed the bedroom door at the end of the landing. Marie stood in shock, trying to take in every inch of what had just transpired. She shook her head quickly and scurried away from the door before she was discovered, running to their bedroom and knocking softly on its cold wooden exterior. “Lill?”

There was no reply. From inside the room, Marie could hear muffled sobbing. Her heart pained for her sister then; what was it that made her different? Why did _Papa’s_ family want to send her away…?

“ _Twin, dear twin,”_ she sang softly, beginning a song that they had made up together.

_“There is a place only we know, there is a place where flowers grow…there is a place for you and me, there is a place where we are free!”_

Marie heard the lock unclick, a crack in the silence of the hall. She hastily opened the door and slipped in, shutting it and locking it behind her. Lillian had only gotten up to unlock the door, and had taken her position back onto the bed, crumpled up with her doll, crying.

Marie padded across the soft rug and laid down on the bed, next to her sister. Lillian was sobbing uncontrollably into her pillow, clutching her doll to her side in a vice-like grip. Marie’s heart broke for her sister, her other half, her twin…she wished immediately she had not been so adamant on eavesdropping…if she hadn’t insisted, then Lillian wouldn’t be crying…

She lay next to her sister for what seemed like an eternity. She sang softly, as her sister cried; the only thing she could think to do. _“Twin, we are both of the same heart! Twin, you’ve been with me from the start! Twin, you light up my world like a star…Twin, when I’m with you, darkness stays quite far…twin, you are my princess, just as I am yours…twin, we are the same, even when the rain pours…”_

Lillian turned her face towards her sister, after the soft music of her voice faded… Her face was reddened, tear streaks staining her birthmark like track marks on a purple sky.

“Father doesn’t want me here,” she said softly. “You heard it yourself.” She stared down at her doll, now positioned in her lap; small, in a little white dress, with yellow yarn hair.

Marie sighed, and stroked her sister’s curls. “It’s all my fault. If I wouldn’t have made you eavesdrop with me, we never would have heard…”

“Heard the truth?” asked Lillian tearfully, looking away from Marie. She slowly brought a delicate hand up to her face, running her fingers over the purpled skin on the right side, crossing over the bridge of her nose slightly. “ _This_ is why, isn’t it? It’s because we don’t look the same. I have one, and you don’t.” she spoke softly, tears beginning to brim in her eyes again. “Why would _Papa_ say that? Doesn’t he love me…?”

“I….I don’t know,” Marie confessed softly. “I don’t know why he would say that…it’s… _stupid._ ” She finished angrily. “You are just like me. We are the same.”

“ _Papa_ doesn’t think so.”

“But you heard _Maman,_ didn’t you? She said…she must be with us. At all costs.” Marie whispered. She reached out and touched Lillian’s birthmark. “It’s my favorite thing about you. I think it makes you…special. More special than me.”

Lillian stared at her, bewildered. “But…I look different than you. I never thought about it before, because no one ever…said anything.”

“We are the same! It’s just different colored. I think it looks like a purple sky, like the ones we make up in our games. A purple sky, where all the princesses live.”

Lillian smiled a small smile. “Where all the princesses live…even those with half purple skin on their faces?”

“Yes,” Marie assured. “In fact, I wish I had one, just so I could be like you!”

Lillian laughed again, this time more genuinely. She smiled, wiping her cheeks and looking at her sister. “You promise?”

Marie smiled widely, relieved greatly that her sister was no longer crying. “I promise! _Twin,”_ she sang softly, looking into Lillian’s eyes deeply. “ _Dear twin! There is a place where no one knows…”_

 _“There is a place where no one goes…”_ Lillian sang softly. _“There is a place for you and me…there is a place,_

_where we are free!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all of those who are reading, I thank you deeply for reading my work, but ask if you could take a second and please review after you read. I am putting my heart into this story, so hearing feedback, opinions, or critiques of any kind would be greatly appreciated. I will respond to every single review written, as they are each a treasure to me. Also, I know many of you are probably awaiting Erik’s appearance quite anxiously…I won’t give away much, but you will see him soon. :)


	4. The eyes never betray the soul

Christine sat at the vanity, staring into the mirror, feeling thousands of miles away. She felt as though a burden had been lifted from her chest, and at long last she could breathe again. She dampened a cloth in a shallow porcelain bowl, dabbing her face, sensing the swollenness of her lips and eyes underneath the coolness of the cloth.

She sighed deeply, unpinning the haphazard storm of her hair, and it fell far past her shoulders, loose and unfurling in dark hazel waves. It was the aftermath of the storm, yet she still felt lightning coursing through her veins. Christine dropped the blood red robe from her shoulders, no longer dying from within, no longer silenced…yet still not free. _Not yet._

After washing up properly and donning a lilac colored frock with a long trailing skirt, she twisted her hair into a neat braided bun that sat at the nape of her neck. Sighing once again, she stared at herself in the mirror, glancing away from it, then looking back again; this time, deeper. _The eyes never betray the soul…_

There was darkness inside. There was a pit, and she was on the edge, staring down into a hole so large and black it seemed bottomless. Winds were howling around her, pulling against her hair, pushing her, abusing her…thrusting her inch by inch towards the abyss that cried out, _come closer…yes, closer…one more step…you’re almost there!_

Startled, she cried out, breaking her gaze from the mirror. Horrors twisted inside of her heart as she thought of her own eyes; the reflection she had seen. _I wanted to die. I did. But it can be different, now. I can be different now…_

Sadness overcame her then, another storm, taking her strength by force; sucking the life from her very flesh and bone. _How could you think like this? How could you let yourself get to this point? How can you look into the mirror and see a stranger staring back…?_

She sat on the edge of the bed, breathing deeply as she looked out the floor length window of the bedroom. The curtains were pulled open and the sun was beaming through, warming her face; her bitten lips and reddened eyes. She closed her eyes gently, feeling the warmth pass over and through her. _God, you are listening. You are listening to me. Even now, you see what I see. You saw the abyss. You heard the winds as they tore at my clothes. You heard my screams in the silence…_

“Madame?” A woman’s voice shattered her silent prayer. It was the maid, Esther, now knocking at the door. Christine stood up, aggressively pulling herself from the dark places her mind had formed, had painted…a rotting black picture that hung from the latches of her soul.

“Esther, yes, come in dear,” she replied in a soft voice, straightening her dress as she turned back toward the vanity. Esther entered, her grey hair in a tight bun perched on the top of her head.

“Madame, shall I help you with your packing? The men are preparing the carriage for your leave tomorrow morning…and I’m sure there will be much that you want to bring with you,” she stated rather briskly.

“No…” Christine murmured, as if in a dream. “No. We leave tonight.”

Esther raised her eyebrows. “Madame? I was not informed…although perhaps I had gotten the time wrong…I had been told tomorrow morning…but, ah, I have been forgetful as of lately,” the maid responded, although sensing something strange within the Vicomtesse’s behavior. She walked up to Christine, who was seated at the vanity now, her backed turned away from the mirror.

“Madame…is everything…alright?”

Christine sat very still, her gaze glazed over, staring out the window.

“Yes, Esther…everything is in place, I suppose…oh, do tell the _Vicomte_ that indeed the time _has_ been changed. Tell him I cannot wait until tomorrow morning.”

Esther, feeling very perplexed, swayed where she stood. “Yes, Madame, of course, I shall relay your message…I…I will leave you to your packing. Please call for me if you’re in need of my assistance.”

Christine nodded, waiting for her to leave the room. As she heard the door shudder closed, she jumped up immediately, again powered by one of her insatiable and immediate urges: she must go see the girls; she must tell them herself.

She found herself half skipping down the hallway, suddenly filled with a strong surge of hope; _we leave tonight._ Could it be that simple? Would she be free the moment she stepped into the carriage; the moment she departed the De Chagny estate?

Would the binds then be shattered?

The twins’ bedroom door was cracked, as usual. Christine burst through the door, unable to wait another second. “Now where are my princesses? Hm? Are they hiding again?”

She heard giggling from the other side of the large framed bed. “ _Maman_ , we are playing a game! We made a little fort,” Marie announced, her small voice pleased with the makeshift fortress.

Christine made her way around the bed and knelt down, bunching up the lavender skirts of her dress as she knelt. The twins sat underneath a thin beige blanket; one end tied onto a bed poster, and the other end stuffed in a dresser drawer.

“And can I enter this fort of the princesses? Am I worthy?” Christine said through a smile.

“ _Only_ if you sing!” Marie responded gleefully, as Lillian sat quietly.

“Ah, my sweets, I shall sing for you of course…in _Lourmarin_! We are going on a trip, an adventure, you could say.”

Lillian looked up then, and Christine saw sadness in her amber eyes. “I know why,” she replied quietly.

“Yes of course dear, because we are all princesses off on a journey! Now, you must both pack, only essentials of course, as we will be able to buy more clothes for you there…No, why in fact, I can make you some! Fit for a princess.”

“No…” Lillian said softly. Marie looked over at her sister, then looked down, fidgeting with her doll. “No, I meant…I know why we have to leave, _Maman._ It’s because of me. Because of this,” she pointed at the right side of her face. Christine could see tears forming in her eyes. Before she utter even a word, Lillian continued in a soft tone; almost a whisper.

“Me and Marie both heard. We eavesdropped. Even though _Papa_ says it’s bad…I heard…you say….he doesn’t want me here. Because of my mark.” Her words were coming up fragmented now, and she began to stifle sobs that threatened to overtake her. Christine sat frozen. _God, please, let her not have heard….let her not have heard those words…please…_

Lillian stood up indignantly, tears streaming down her face. “I heard! I heard everything! _Papa_ thinks I’m different! He doesn’t want me here! So you made a deal and now we are all leaving, when it was supposed to be _me_! It was supposed to be _me_ …” her voice faded off as trickles of tears turned to sobs. She covering her small face with trembling hands, her shoulders quivering from a weight she could not bear.

Christine crawled over to her, wrapping her arms around the child’s waist, leaning her head onto Lillian’s stomach. Her daughter threw desperate arms around her mother’s figure, weeping into her perfectly pinned up curls.

“But I heard you, _maman_ …you said…you said it made you _sick…_ you said if I go, we all go…then you said…you said…you forgot….about…you,” she finished tearfully, her words staggered and disjointed.

“Yes, sweet child, I said that. It is true…” Christine murmured. “I have lost myself. Even Queens lose themselves, sometimes.”

“But…what about what _Papa_ said? About…my…mark? Doesn’t he love me?” she whispered, looking woefully into her mother’s eyes.

“Oh my angel, of course he loves you. It’s his family…they are, well…if it helps you to understand better, your father is protecting you…from them. He thinks they won’t love you, as we love you…”

The words tasted foul as she spoke them. Her anger at Raoul surged for a moment, but soon faded away; replaced with utter emptiness and a dull sadness that she pushed away; hidden once more in the deep.

The sorrow on little Lill’s face broke her heart; it was like watching a china doll, perfect and pale, falling and shattering onto a wooden floor; leaving behind millions of tiny misshapen shards.

Christine took Lillian’s face in her hands. “Do you want to know a secret?”

Both girls looked intrigued, especially Lillian, who had snot running down her lips from her nose.

“Secret? What…what is it?” she replied, wiping the snot on the sleeve of her frock.

“His family thinks of me that way too. They do not accept or love me, just as they do not understand you…so _even_ if your flesh was uncolored, _even_ if your mark could disappear…your _Maman_ would still insist we leave this place for a while. Just the three of us.”

Lillian wiped her eyes as Christine leaned back, taking her daughter by the shoulders gently from where she knelt.

“The two princesses and the Queen, together, forever,” she whispered. “Nothing shall ever part us. Nothing.”

Lillian stayed silent, but slowly released a tiny smile. “Okay,” she whispered. She continued wiping her tears away, and Christine smiled at her, looking deep into her eyes.

“ _Nothing’s gonna harm you, not while I’m around…”_ She sang softly. The girls both drew closer, entranced by their mother’s soft melodious voice. Christine stood up, grabbing onto the bedpost while spinning her skirts theatrically.

 _“Nothing’s gonna harm you, no sir! Not while I’m around…”_ she twirled, then grabbed both of her daughter’s by their hands. They laughed, startled by their mother’s dancing; for they had not seen her dance, not _ever._

Around they spun in a circle; an endless cycle of laughter that had ensued from darkness.

Soon, all three were laughing; even little Lillian. The three collapsed out of dizziness in a heap of colored dresses intermingled, intertwined; sky blue, yellow, and lavender…three flowers that bloomed, blossomed, and had begun to open in the eyes of the sun.

When their laughter had died down, Christine gathered her skirts and stood. Her twins looked up at her, jubilance and laughter still swirling in their eyes; _they are my home,_ she thought, smiling.

“Now, my angels, we must prepare, for a journey awaits us! The Princesses must be ready by 6 o’ clock this evening, and not a moment past…for our carriage shall be waiting,” she finished dramatically. Both girls jumped up and scrambled for their dolls, running for the empty suitcases that lay near the end of the bed.

“Yes, my Queen!” Marie sang, “we won’t be late for the carriage, for princesses are never late, they are _always_ on time!”

Christine laughed again. “Yes, my love, this is true. Now, you must hurry! Esther will be up to assist in a moment.” She spun around once more, her purpled skirts soaring, floating, then falling; and the twins shrieked with glee.

As Christine departed from their room, she left the door cracked behind her, letting a steady stream of light into the dim corridor. She sighed another deep breath of relief. _Soon,_ she told herself. _Soon you will be in the carriage, soon you will be far away from here…_

She was dragged out of her thoughts as she almost crashed headfirst into a figure standing outside of the door. “Oh!” she exclaimed, smoothing out wrinkles in her dress as she surveyed the figure in the hazy lamplight of the hallway.

Raoul stood before her, his blue eyes fiery with a sadness Christine had never seen. “Tonight? You leave tonight? But I thought you had planned…tomorrow you had said,” he spoke softly. His voice sounded hurt; a wounded animal…limping alone in a dark forest, crying out; licking its miserable wounds.

“I thought…you had said…” he trailed off, tears brimming upon edges of his eyes. He looked away from her as a single tear fell. Christine could have sworn she heard it crash onto the floor; and suddenly, there was nothing but silence between them.

“Raoul,” she spoke quietly, averting her eyes from his. “I…I must pack. Forgive me,” and she hastily pushed past him, almost running to the bedroom, afraid to see the emotion on his face that had ripped her heart wide open.

_The eyes never betray the soul._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read this story and love any aspect of it, please do leave feedback; I absolutely love getting it. To my readers still awaiting Erik’s appearance, be patient…he is coming…with a bang, I might add.


	5. She who has been reborn

_And, I have loved badly, loved too quickly, forgotten my own name, sat in cold bath water for too long, bitten my lip until it stung, raw with the bitter and distant memories of you…My tongue throbs from holding itself back; my fingers tender from touching the blistering stove; recoiling, again and again. And your eyes, they look deeply into mine, deceiving me, loving me…but now, it is too late, and I have loved desperately; loved too soon, forgotten my own name, sat alone in an empty room…This love I gave to you, frightfully fast that it rotted my hands, my eyes, this fate; the love I gave, with burns on my soul…this love I gave too late…_

Christine’s thoughts were a whirlwind. Sadness spilt over her, waxing and waning like the ocean’s tide. The whisper of the sea filled her ears as her fingers numbly folded various frocks and pieces of clothing…she could hear the roar of the ocean, deafening, as she laid the clothing into the suitcase…and Raoul’s distant and carefree laughter…

_Little Lotte, who shall she be today? Will she be a princess, with a crown of seashells? Or will she instead be a Queen, with swirling robes made of the sea itself?_

His distant words and laughter floated into her mind.

 _My love…where have you gone? When did you disappear from my eyes? From my hands? From deep within my heart…?_ She thought, mourning deeply the man she loved, as if he were already dead… _but it is as if I am already dead, too…_

_Our love…our fervent love…it made our daughters, pure and sweet…our angels…could he not keep this plague from us? From me? Or have I been dying for years, since I left the Opera Populaire…have I been dying and not known until he spoke those words, so harsh and cruel…has the world changed him? Has he forgotten our love? Has it left him empty, saddened, and cold…like it has me?_

She shook her head, wanting the thoughts to leave, to disappear. She pushed them out, pushed them deep, again, into the recesses of her mind… _Tonight shall not be for mourning. It shall be freedom, the loosening of my chains…that, and nothing more._

A knock came at the bedroom door. Christine froze where she knelt, knowing that particular knock, feeling the presence behind the wooden exterior across the room. She wanted to bolt the door, to make up an excuse, or a thousand, just so she would not have to look upon his face…

Yet this she could not deny him; the raw emotion she had seen in the hall cast shadows in her mind, her heart… She had to face him, at least for a moment, to tell him everything could be alright…that _they_ could be alright…and maybe, that she could be whole once more.

“Come in,” she said softly. The door opened, and Raoul entered, slowly at first, unsure of his own steps, perhaps. He knelt down besides her, simply sitting with her as she continued to fold her garments. “Christine,” he finally spoke. His voice was soft and ragged, and filled with sadness… _why have you placed this curse on me? Why have you given me this burden? Why can’t you take it all away?_ Her thoughts hissed at her, a viper, flicking its tongue in and out, tasting the poison in the air.

“I…I understand,” he broke the silence again. “I do. It just…breaks my heart to see you go. I never wanted us to part. I never wanted this. And I don’t know how I can make things right.”

Christine sighed, finally looking up at him. His face was desperate, his brow wrinkled, and his blue eyes were filled with a far off melancholy glaze. “I want you to be whole again, and if that is you leaving for a bit, I find that I should not… _bind_ you anymore. Though, I will come visit, I was thinking once every couple weeks perhaps, to spend time with you and the girls in the countryside…if you will have me, of course…”

“Oh Raoul,” she whispered. “Of course I will have you, I just need time…I need time alone, away from all of this…you understand, I see it in your eyes. You’ve seen me… _wilting_ , I know you have… I understand…your family expects much of you, but you’ve forgotten our girls, you’ve forgotten _me_ …”

“I know,” he replied softly, bowing his head… “I feel I have not been the father I should have been. I have not been the husband I should have been…I’ve let our love wilt, I’ve let our love…”

“Disappear?” Christine looked at him. He wiped away tears that had begun to fall.

“I want you to be whole again. I want to be better than I am. Please know that I have suffered deeply over this, whether I have revealed it or not…and I feel that I shall suffer more, when you finally do leave…”

“Raoul,” she said gently, placing a hand on his arm, “You have given me everything I needed. You have secured our passage to the cottage, and this is all I could have asked from you…and you did not take that from me. You have given it willingly. You have granted me freedom.”

“You speak as if our marriage imprisons you,” he whispered. “And this shatters me, more than you could ever see…”

“Let us not speak like that…let us speak only of what is good. My freedom, _Lourmarin_ …it is what I have been needing, for so many years…and I thank you. For everything.”

He nodded silently, and Christine suddenly embraced him. They stayed kneeling on the floor, locked in a bind, a fateful embrace, until Christine slowly withdrew…breaking the bind once more.

“I shall write to you, and you shall see us in a couple weeks, as you said,” she said softly, looking into the deep of his eyes, broken and blue, the eyes of not a man, but now a pleading child… “Now please dear, if you could prepare the carriage for 6 o’ clock, as I’ve told the twins to be ready at that time. _And a Queen is never late…_

“It is done, Little Lotte,” he whispered. “Esther relayed earlier to me of your plans to leave this evening. I suppose…I understand your urgency. I wanted to make the trip as comfortable as possible, so I’m sending two of my men to escort you; that you and the girls may ride comfortably in the carriage. I hope that’s alright…”

“Yes, it is perfect, Raoul,” she smiled then, feeling an estranged sense of hope, a distant fluttering of wings in her heart. “The men will drop us off, yes? As I remember, there are horses at the stable next to the cottage…we will not need a carriage in such a small town…”

“But of course, as you wish. There are three horses there…oh, and one more thing, love. I’ve hired a woman, a housekeeper who has been living at the cottage, about five years ago…she has been taking care of the place, the land, and the horses in exchange for free rent. I believe she is a seamstress, if I remember correctly. Claudia Bordeaux; I have written her to let her know of your arrival, but I fear the letter may not reach her in time…so please give her this, when you meet her,” he produced a letter, stamped with the De Chagny seal, and handed it to Christine. She took it, and placed it softly into a leather bag.

“Thank you, truly,” she whispered to him, touching his hand softly with her own. The glint of the diamond on her hand caught the sunlight, sending a torrent of colors onto the wall for a moment. “You have given me everything that I have needed. Your understanding of this is what will save me,” she murmured, the words tasting foul again upon her lips. _It is not he who will save you,_ a voice in her head whispered eerily. _For it is you who will have to save yourself…_

The rest of the day was filled with chaos. Christine finished packing rather quickly, as Raoul left her to attend to her personals; she packed as lightly as she could, bringing a suitcase filled with clothes, a leather bound notepad, and several hygienic essentials. She packed a separate smaller case for her makeup and hairpins, wondering to herself if she would even put the tiny brushes to use, out in the beautiful countryside that now beckoned to her, called to her, softly… _Soon…soon, you shall be free…_

The time on the clock chimed half past five. The evening was slowly setting in through the windows, and a glorious sunset filled the mansions tapestried interior. Purple and gold rays traced the hallways as maids scurried about, finishing their careful preparations of food and water for the long journey ahead.

Christine walked out into the evening light, radiant as the last bits of the day warmed her face. She pulled a dark blue cloak around her shoulders, watching as the two burly men loaded the suitcases into the carriage. _Soon, you shall disappear into the night! What a dream, a dream that life has given me…you are listening, Father, you see me…you hear my cries…you’ve seen the abyss that I stand upon…and you pull me back from it, inch by inch…_

She was pulled out of her thoughts as she heard musical laughter radiate into the quiet of the evening air. The twins came rushing out of the house, clutching their dolls and donned in matching blue cloaks, as light as a cloudless summer’s day. They rushed up to their mother, and both curtsied, giggling as they did so. “The princesses are early!” Marie announced, looking up at her mother with adoration. “Have we pleased our Queen?”

“Oh, the Queen is so _very_ pleased! Her princesses have surprised her! Why, early? I could not have anticipated a better surprise!” Christine laughed. “Are the princesses ready? Have they packed everything they need for their journey?”

“Yes, Esther helped us!” Lillian said excitedly. Marie groaned as her sister spoke of Esther’s insistence to pack their clothes. “We could have done it ourselves…” she mumbled, but brightened when she saw the look of wonder and mystery in her mother’s eyes.

“Everything is prepared, Madame,” one of the men spoke up as he jumped off the side of the carriage. _Raphael_ , Christine remembered, as he had worked in the stables for quite some time, tending to the horses with careful diligence. He was thin and sinewy, yet strong from his handling of horses, with dark brown eyes and matching combed over hair. “Thank you, Raphael,” she nodded her head to him gracefully. “Then we shall say our goodbyes, then, girls, shall we? For the night will come quick.”

Raoul walked out of the house slowly, surveying the scene before him. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his palms felt slick with sweat as he watched his daughters giggling and twirling about from afar. His eyes fell upon Lillian, laughing with her sister… _If the birthmark could be taken away from her…none of this would have happened. If she was truly identical, my daughters would not be leaving tonight…my wife would not be leaving my side…or is it I who has caused this?_ He thought back to the day he proposed to Christine, the joy and laughter he had seen sparkling in her dark brown eyes…Oh, there had been such joy. And he had destroyed it. _My hands are tied,_ he thought. _Disobey my parents, or send my marred child away? Who could ask this of me? What have I done to deserve this sickness, this burden upon my very soul?_

He walked forwards towards the circle of Christine, Lillian, and Marie, all clad in long blue cloaks. _My three beauties,_ he thought wretchedly. _And I’m losing them all. Soon, they will disappear into the night air. And I will be left with blood on my hands, blood that has been staining my skin for years…what can be done? How am I to deal with her not being by my side…how could I not see her dying slowly, next to me? I do not even deserve her love…I have done nothing but kill her softly, kill her slowly…bind her with marriage, bury her in this treachery…_

Raoul walked up to them, hesitation in each step that crunched in the dirt, echoing within the chasm of his mind. He knelt down, and the twins turned around to face him. “ _Papa_!” Marie shouted, burying herself in her arms. Lillian stood like a statue, her small hands curling her doll to her chest, watching, waiting…

After their embrace, Raoul kissed Marie on her cheek softly. “Be brave, my love…I shall see you soon,” he whispered with a small smile. “I will, _Papa,_ I promise!” she laughed. Raoul turned to Lillian. “Come here, my angel,” he murmured, smiling at her. Lillian stood frozen, unmoving. Christine’s heart pounded, but she stood still, a Queen overseeing a treacherous court. “Lillian,” Raoul seemed to beg, “won’t you say goodbye to me, my angel?”

“I’m not your angel,” Lillian replied, staring at him. Raoul’s mouth fell open in shock, as he stayed frozen in position, kneeling in the dirt, waiting with outstretched arms. “Lill…”

“Don’t call me _Lill_! Don’t call me _anything!_ I heard everything! Me and Marie! _You_ wanted me to go away! _You_ think I’m different! You hate my _birthmark_! So that means…you hate _me_!” now she was screaming, tears running down her face. “No, Lill, that is not true...” he spoke softly, but his daughter’s screams of indignation overpowered him.

“ _I hate you!”_ she cried, louder this time. “ _I HATE YOU_!”

Before Raoul could respond, Lillian turned and ran towards the carriage, not looking back…he heard a loud thud that sliced the night air like a blade; the sound of the carriage door being slammed shut.

Marie ran after her sister, calling out as she ran, “Twin! Twin, it will be okay, I promise! Twin…” her voice faded as she climbed into the carriage and again, the door slammed shut.

Christine stood as Raoul stayed kneeling, his hands hanging limply as his sides. His face crumpled slowly, and he began to weep.

She moved towards him, leaning down and embracing him tightly as he cried. _Was it he who had just held me as I cried, broken? Now it is I who hold him, in pieces…_

“Did you know?” he whispered, looking up at her. “Did you know that she knew?”

Tears were running down his face, streams and rivers connecting his heartstrings and sobs into a single catastrophic symphony.

“Yes,” she whispered softly. “I knew.”

He stood then, shaking with anger and helplessness, tears still pooling in his deep blue eyes. “So this is what it’s…come to be?”

Christine’s heart twisted in her chest. “Raoul, please, let me explain…”

“Leave me,” he whispered, staring her coldly in the eyes.

“Raoul, I won’t leave like this! Please,” she stepped towards him again, and he backed away further, covering his face as he turned towards the house.

 _“Leave me!_ ” It was a cry, a scream of pain, and the sound seared through Christine’s ears, hot to the touch, stinging her, scarring her…

She bit her lip to hold back her tears. She took one last look at his figure, fading into the darkness of the night, hunched over, bleeding from the inside out…and she ran.

Raphael was waiting at the carriage, pretending he had not witnessed the emotionally distressing scene before him. “Madame,” he said softly, holding the door of the black carriage open for her. She nodded to him, and stepped into the interior of the carriage, where Lillian sat crying, and Marie by her side, desperately consoling her…

They both grew quiet when Christine stepped into the carriage and sat down. She uttered not a word, yet knocked on the ceiling of the carriage; a signal for Raphael to press forward.

The two horses whinnied, and the carriage lurched. Lillian launched herself into her mother’s arms then, as if the lurch of the carriage had broken the last bit of her spirit.

Christine let her cry, simply holding her tightly to her chest, and running fingers through the child’s tousled curls. As Lillian’s cries grew louder, the night grew darker, and the mansion disappeared from sight. _I will be free,_ Christine thought. _We will be free…yet why do I feel like his last words bound me tighter than before? Why do his tears make my heart weep, ever so? Will I ever truly…be free?_

Marie leaned against her mother, stroking her sister’s tear stained face. “ _I know a place where no one knows…I know a place where no one goes! I know a place for you and me…I know a place where we are free!”_

Christine heard her daughter’s lovely voice, and suddenly she began to sing; the nightingale half free, half bound…holding her broken daughter in her shaking pale hands...

_“Deep in the dark of the woods, deep in the roots of the trees, darker than night and fiercer than day, it is she who’s cut loose, it is she who is freed…she who is beautiful like a moon or a star, she who is loved and whose fears are so far, she who is treasured and she who is torn, for then she awakens, and it is she who has been reborn!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank those who have been reading, and again, please leave feedback. Reviews let me know what my readers are feeling and thinking, and it would mean the world to me to take a second and let me know your thoughts.


	6. Axis Mundi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the chapter that has been anxiously anticipated. I know the story has been quite somber so far, but as this chapter serves as a turning point, I assure you there is beauty and joy to come. 
> 
> The song sung in this chapter, Edelweiss, does not belong to me, but was written by Oscar Hammerstein II, from The Sound of Music. 
> 
> Axis Mundi (Latin noun) : “line or stem through the earth’s center, connecting its surface to the underworld and the heavens and around which the universe revolves.” – Merriam Webster Dictionary 
> 
> So, without further ado…

The journey lasted three days. Three days of tossing and turning within the confines of the black carriage; three days of the painful ripping of the heart; three hearts that were equally torn, each in its own separate and distinct form. Yet from those ragged ruptures, new blossoms and buds began to sprout, as the landscape and skies widened all around. By the second day of travelling the winding back roads, Christine almost wished she had taken a train with the girls; but she kept her persistence for the journey to stay as subtle as possible. She suddenly did not want to be recognized anywhere, by anyone. She wanted to slip into the dark as she had the night of the departure; she wanted to cloak herself in imminent shadow, to forget her last name…to forget the woman in the vanity mirror.

The hours seemed to drag by in the carriage, as it quickly became cramped for the energetic twins. At night, when darkness fell over the land, they would take solace in small inns along the roadside; most of which were downtrodden and dank. As the horses would take their rest in the stables, Christine would tuck the twins into small and rickety beds after a short bath, and would sing softly to them by candlelight. The twins, who had never set foot outside the mansions’ luxurious realm seemed to take a liking to these old run-down inns. It was all an adventure to them, and everything was new; even the broken and the dilapidated. Christine felt deeply thankful that her daughters had asked no questions about the desolate inns; for it in fact seemed only to widen and spark their vast imaginations.

The afternoon of the third day grew terribly suffocating inside the interior of the carriage; every leather surface was hot to the touch; a pan of water sitting on a stovetop, boiling and hissing viciously. Christine was restless, falling in and out of dreamless sleep. Every bump in the road woke her abruptly, reminding her of each day’s journey that had passed; the distance that grew wider and wider between her and the mansion…and her Vicomte De Chagny.

Sometimes she slept and dreamt feverishly; _she would wake up with silken sheets tangled around her legs, snakes that screamed and strangled, crawling up to her neck, tying her words inside of her mouth… the robe of red laying at the end of the bed, reeking of rotting flesh, running with streams of blood… and Raoul stank of whiskey and contempt…he would watch as she lay writhing in the bed, with a drink in his hand, and a paper in the other, and his parents standing by the windows…smiling. She tried calling out his name, but the snakes choked her still; the silk smooth against her skin, yet tightening with every rise and fall of her chest…and he would turn away, then, to the window… he would see, yet he did nothing…_

She would wake then, ripping at her throat, gasping for air…only to see the twins sleeping peacefully on the opposite leather seat; Lillian snuggled softly into her sister’s side, both dreaming of castles, clouds, and freedom…

 _You are here, you are with them,_ she reminded herself. _He had not watched you die…he had given you a chance at life, again…_ Yet why did his last cries of pain still ring in her ears? She pleaded desperately with God to relieve those echoes that beaded her face; a crown of blood and thorns; dripping, mangling, killing… _Let me forget…please, Father let me forget…_

Suddenly the carriage began to slow its momentum and came to a halt; ripping Christine’s thoughts from the seemingly endless spiral of emotions; saving her once again…She sat up, curls stuck to her forehead, feeling beads of cold sweat running down her back… “Raphael?” she called out with a slight uncertainty.

To her immediate relief the carriage door swung open, and Raphael stood soaking with sweat yet smiling, crinkling the corners of his bloodshot eyes. “Madame,” he said softly. “It appears we have arrived.”

Christine’s heart began to race; thunder pounding in the midst of a bright sky. She leaned over to the twins, who slept peacefully, and gently shook them. “Girls,” she whispered. “Lovely girls…”

Lillian and Marie woke slowly, rubbing their eyes against the sunlight that poured in through the open carriage door. “Are we…here?” Marie asked through a yawn.

Christine smiled warmly at her. “Yes my love, and as soon as you both get up, we can…”

“LILL! We are _here_!” Marie squealed, shaking her sister who was still picking sleep out of her eyes. “Come on, come _on_!” She tugged on her sister’s hand, and Christine let out a laugh. “Are the princesses ready?” she asked, mystery sparkling in her dark brown eyes.

The twins jumped out of the carriage in a tangle, and Christine stepped out gracefully. Although her legs ached and her back was drenched with sweat, she lost her breath at the beauty of what now surrounded her.

The cottage was more beautiful than she remembered; perhaps it was something out of a distant dream or a fairytale. It was large for a cottage, built of beige stone with two stories, with three open windows that framed the front of the house. Each window had shutters that had been painted sky blue; something Christine had not remembered from her and Raoul’s visit, oh so long ago…and there were trees, immense and tall trees that framed the corners of the house, sharp and green, like tall arrows guarding a fortress. Lush vines crept up the left side of the house, framing the windows with heart shaped leaves. A small side entrance was built on the left side, covered in a canopy of a small twisted tree grown crookedly to the side; with tiny purple flowers budding in the midst of its shade.

The twins were running now, screaming with delight, swinging their dolls around in circles as they took in their new surroundings. “ _Maman_!” they were shouting, laughing, even singing her name… “ _Maman_ , it is a castle for the princesses and the _Queen_!”

Before Christine could respond to their joy, a woman emerged from the front entrance; middle aged with a lean build, and ashen blond hair pulled into a tight and long braid that fell over one shoulder. The woman approached Christine, surveying the carriage, horses, Raphael, and the twins who had not stopped their singing and twirling…

“Madame? I believe I have not been informed of any visits, of this sort…from the Vicomte, that is,” the woman spoke curtly, as if speaking to a merchant in a marketplace. She eyed Christine, and placed her hands on her hips. “If you’ve come for the black stallion, I can assure you he is not for sale.”

“No Madame – Claudia, is it?” Christine asked. “It appears the Vicomte’s letter did not reach you in time. I have this for you,” she reached into her leather satchel and pulled out Raoul’s letter. As she handed it to Claudia, her eyes passed over the De Chagny seal, and her heart seared with pain for a moment. Christine closed her eyes and willed the pain to pass, taking deep breaths of the fragrant air… _Father, let me forget…_

Claudia looked at Christine suspiciously, but ripped open the letter. Her eyes skimmed over it, _deep blue eyes,_ Christine noted, and suddenly Claudia’s harsh demeanor changed in an instant.

“Oh my _goodness!_ _Vicomtesse De Chagny_ …my Lady, if I had known…oh, God, where are my manners!” she flung her hands up in the air. “No, Madame _please_ …call me Christine. I do insist. And I would like to keep that title…as private as possible…” her voice faded off, averting her eyes to the dirt. “Oh dear, but of course. I understand, more than you know! It’s a small town of course, you don’t want others meddling in your affairs! Ah, yes, this is why _Lourmarin_ is so special, you see…it is where people go to become forgotten. Or, as I like to put it, to simply start over.”

Christine smiled at this woman. She had a strange warmth about her, and Christine had the sudden irrational impulse to run into Claudia’s arms, to tell her of everything… Raoul… the twins… the wretched abyss in the mirror… _No_. She would not reveal anything, perhaps. She just wanted to forget. _Father…please…_

“Oh look at me here chattering while you and your dears stand out in the hot sun! Forgive me, I had not been expecting such a lovely surprise today!” Claudia broke into a smile, clasping her hands together. “You there,” she pointed at Raphael, who had been untethering the horses. “Won’t you take the ladies’ luggage inside? I’m sure they are all dreadfully tired!” She looked at Christine, stepping a bit closer. “The whole journey by carriage, dear? Now that is just dreadful!”

“Yes, it was…quite uncomfortable,” Christine said slowly. She leaned closer to Claudia, now talking in a whisper. “I did not want to be recognized by the main road, or by train…I wish to remain… _anonymous_ , here.”

“Say no more, my dear, say no more…I’ve heard rumors of royalty, yes, and the terrible burden it puts upon wives…oh, you look as if you’ve been through hell, dear girl.”

Christine had to bite down into the side of her cheek to keep tears from falling. “So it seems I have,” she said, barely a whisper.

Claudia took her hand then; it was warm and calloused, but gentle; a mother’s touch, almost… “Enough of this talk, my dear. We have plenty of time to sort things out. Let me bring you inside for a bath and something to drink…you must rest.”

“Yes, I would like that…very much,” Christine whispered, tears blurring her vision. She bit down harder, on her bottom lip this time, wincing at the pain. She wiped her eyes quickly then, before the twins could take notice, and began to follow Claudia to the front entrance. “Girls!” she called out. “Princesses! You will have plenty of time to adventure later. We must get you two a bath, and some much needed rest!”

“Yes, my Queen!” Lillian laughed joyously. The twins followed Christine and Claudia obediently, swinging their dolls as they walked.

The front entrance led to a large kitchen area, beautiful and bright, with a smooth wooden floor. Woven baskets crammed with various fruits and vegetables sat scattered about the countertops, and a black tea kettle stood on the stove. A handsomely crafted wooded table was placed in the center of the kitchen; completed by an ornate blue vase filled with twisting magenta flowers.

“Oh, and your valiant Vicomte sent me enough francs last year to have plumbing installed,” Claudia added as Christine plopped herself down in a chair at the table. “Er, valiant perhaps wasn’t the right word…generous, I should say…” Claudia mumbled, noting Christine’s dulled expression at the mention of her husband.

As she and the twins ate a delicious stew that Claudia had fixed up, Christine found herself feeling faint, and on the brink of exhaustion. Her mind had been stirring constantly for the past three days, and it was as if their arrival had relieved some sort of anxiety; or perhaps confirmed that this indeed, was not a dream. _She was here…_

“Claudia,” Christine looked up into the woman’s bright blue eyes, almost as bright as the blue that stretched far and wide across the countryside where they were nestled. “I…I fear I am very…tired. I must rest. Please, I must rest…”

Her voice was hoarse, pleading…Claudia swooped over her like a mother hen, taking her hand once more. “Say no more, sweet love,” she murmured, and quickly turned to the twins. “I am taking your mother up to her room, dear girls. When I come back down, I will show you the stables! Would you like that?”

“Yes ma’am!” They shouted in unison. “Now I won’t be having any of that! You will call me Claudia,” she spoke gently, but with a commanding undertone. “Yes, Claudia!” the twins gleefully obliged. They turned to their mother then, quite concerned as they saw her eyes beginning to flutter, even as she sat upright in the chair. “ _Maman_ , are you alright?” Marie touched her shoulder. “Yes, my love,” Christine murmured, smiling weakly at her. “Your Queen just needs rest. Listen to Claudia while I am sleeping, dear girls, she will take care of you.”

“Yes, my Queen! We will listen to her _much_ better than Esther,” Marie giggled.

Christine’s smile widened, but her eyelids fought to stay open. She nodded to Claudia, who still held her hand gently, and she began to lead Christine slowly up the stairs.

They entered a large bedroom, which was in the very back of the house. Christine faintly remembered this very room, yet it was so much different than it had been all those years ago…the walls were whitewashed stone, glimmering like sunlight upon an ocean’s tresses, and a single large painting was hung beside the large four poster bed. The painting was a spritz of wild colors, bold with strokes and splashes, all which seemed to connect to a swirl in the middle of the canvas. “I call it, ‘A door to another world’,” Claudia said softly, as she helped Christine into the bed. Soft translucent linen hung from the posters of the bed, curtains made of angel dustings and white wings, blowing softly in the breeze from the open balcony doors. _The balcony,_ Christine thought distantly as she began to drift off, feeling Claudia’s warm hand upon her forehead. _We went out onto the balcony…and he showed me…everything…_

_She was walking down the landing, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. The parlor door was cracked, and she could smell the scent of ink and wine in the air. She heard voices; entangling together, whispering like vipers, plotting…Lillian, the voices whispered. Lillian, Lillian, Lillian!_

_She pushed open the door, and Raoul stood with his mother and father, holding a paper, dripping wet with ink, with blood… “It is done, Christine…she is gone. Forgive me…”_

_Christine collapsed onto the floor, tearing at her hair, trying to scream, but her voice had been taken…his parents’ faces were twisted then, smiling with toothless sneers; their eyes widening to an inhuman length, opening to reveal a bland yellow stain, the same color as the parchment in their hands, in his hands… “It is done!” They laughed, over and over. “It is done!”_

Christine woke up with a scream raw in her throat. The room was filled with darkness, yet a soft path was carved by pale moonlight, streaming across the floor, leading out onto the open doors of the balcony…her breathing began to slow as she took in her surroundings. _It wasn’t real. Lillian is here, with me…we are far, far away from them…_

She swung her feet over the side of the bed, wondering how long she had been asleep for. It had to be at least past midnight. Her eyes fell upon the path on the floor, a crystalline river, rising and falling in the night air, matching each breath that she took.

She stepped across the floor, following the path of the moon. She glanced at the painting on the wall, thinking of Claudia’s last words before she had fallen into a deep sleep… _a door to another world…_

Christine pulled the silvery curtains aside, silken moonlight upon her fingertips, and stepped out onto the open balcony. There was darkness all around her, but the moon lit the tops of the trees, the forest, and suddenly, she could see across the earth…she could see its depth, its sorrow, and its joy… beautiful and hidden away… _just as I am…_

_I feel as though I am standing at the center of it all…with heaven above me, and earth below me…an axis mundi…a lost queen in a world between other worlds…a world that connects the earth beneath me, and the stars above me…_

Out of the silence, then, she heard something…distant at first, then growing louder, yet still faint…a crescendo, a voice…a _man’s_ voice… _singing_. Christine shook her head, wondering if yet she still dreamt…but the voice was clear, now. Distant, yet clear, drifting through the trees, cutting smoothly like a knife to her soft white skin.

_“Every morning you greet me…small and white, clean and bright…you look happy to meet me. Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow! Bloom and grow, forever…Edelweiss, edelweiss, bless my home-land forever…”_

The voice was strong, a sensual and powerful tenor that resounded throughout the forest, echoing against the trees that whispered softly. The smoothness and dexterity of the melody soothed her, and she leaned forward, suddenly filled with the urge to sing back, yet she did not know this song…his song? This man who sang amongst the trees…

And she heard, upon her _axis mundi,_ his voice…over and over, over and over…until it faded softly, and the morning light began to touch her skin.

_“Small and white, clean and bright…_

_you look happy to meet me…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if this story evokes anything within you, please leave feedback. It absolutely makes my day and fuels my passion for this story more and more, knowing there are those out there who are falling in love with it, as I am.


	7. A purple flower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few German canine commands used in this chapter.  
> Aus means out/release, pronounced “owss”  
> Hier means here, pronounced “hee-er”
> 
> There shall be more commands to come. That all being said, please enjoy this long chapter…and let me know your thoughts.
> 
> So, without another moment to spare…

As the light of the morning kissed her face, she felt a deep throbbing in both of her knees; she had been kneeling for hours while resting her chin on the wooden rail of the balcony. The man’s voice had long since faded, almost as if it had disappeared within the blanket of night; vanished when the first droplet of sun splintered through the trees…

Christine rose slowly, brushing dust of the white stone off of her clothes; the same clothes she had been in since yesterday… _Goodness, I need a bath,_ she thought. But this voice in the forest…she could not shake this melody, this voice from her mind. It entangled like a vine, a thorn pricking her in the finger, a smooth droplet of blood running down her skin…

Who’s voice was this? And why did it _pierce_ her so? Why was it haunting, why so smooth, so loud yet so soft, strange and rough…flowing through the forest like an elusive dream? She searched her mind frantically, trying to tie pieces of the melody together; it was like knitting fragments of earth and sky… _Edelweiss? Could it be German, perhaps…?_

All of a sudden, there was a soft knock at the bedroom door. “Christine, dear?” Claudia’s muffled voice came from behind the door. “Are you decent?”

Christine hurried from the balcony back into the room and threw herself onto the bed, just as Claudia slowly made her way into the room. “Oh my! You look tousled, my sweet…was the bed too soft? Did breeze keep you up? I knew I should have shut those doors…”

“No, the doors…I…I was relieved to have them open. The air…it was exactly what I needed,” Christine responded, rubbing her eyes, although she didn’t feel weary…she felt…electricity, coursing through her veins at the secret she had discovered…

“Well,” Claudia placed her hands on her hips, “Now, we must get you a bath. And a change of clothes, dear! You must have been chilled to the bone sleeping in old sweat…although you _were_ exhausted, so I simply laid you down and you fell right asleep!”

“Yes…asleep…” Christine murmured, wondering if it had all been a dream…the nightmare, the moonlit path, the song from the woods… she looked up at the painting on the wall. “Did you paint this yourself?”

“Indeed!” Claudia beamed. “Do you like it? Sometimes I find time to paint in the garden, although my style is found to be quite unconventional…I’ve been unable to sell any of them in the market…but art is very personalized, I suppose…one must resonate with the work deeply to understand it.”

“I believe I did,” Christine responded, smiling at Claudia as she laid haphazardly on the bed. “It made sense to me last night…I…went out onto the balcony for a bit.”

“Oh, what a sight it must have been, compared to the city! _Lourmarin_ is most beautiful at night, that’s what I always say…you can see across the forest from that very balcony!”

“Yes…and your painting…why, it felt…” she paused, suddenly uncertain if she should reveal last nights’ secret to Claudia. Would the woman think her hysteric? Imagining things? Delusional?

But Claudia inched closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning in…her eyes mystified. “It felt…what, dear? You see, I never hear any feedback from my work, of course besides my own…”

Christine sighed softly and stared up at the ceiling, tracing the rippling rays of light with her eyes. “It felt exactly like the painting,” she whispered, “like a door…to another world.”

“Hm,” Claudia responded, lost in thought… “That’s why I thought the placement was ideal, you see…for the balcony is, well…to me, the most beautiful sight in the world.”

“As it was for me,” Christine said, her voice still a whisper. Perhaps she would tell Claudia…just not now, not this soon…

“But oh, listen to me again, chatting your ear off! I’ve drawn hot water for you my dear, and your suitcases are downstairs…I told the man not to disturb you while you were sleeping…Raphael was his name, right?”

“Yes, Raphael…has he left with the carriage?”

Claudia nodded. “Quite early this morning, he left…said to tell you farewell, and the girls as well.”

Christine nodded. As Claudia took her leave (persisting upon her once more about the bath), Christine slipped into a smaller connecting room that had a blue tiled sink and a large brass bathtub. It was filled with clear rippling water with steam that rose off of the surface, caressing her face as she leaned over its depth… she gladly began to strip off her sweat soaked garments and threw them carelessly onto the floor. There she stood; stark naked for a moment, staring at the single glaring diamond on her finger…she slowly slipped it off, and placed it carefully next to the faucet. _I just don’t want anyone asking questions,_ she told herself calmly. _It will stay safe here, nestled in these pretty blue tiles…_

As Christine submerged herself into the large tub, her body began to relax; her muscles uncramped and unraveled themselves…and she slowly breathed in the air…steaming with lilac soap and a warm earthy wind coming from a small upper window…

Yet, her mind still teased with the melody from the forest. _Who would even be singing in the midst of the night…?_

After the bath, Christine dressed herself in a plain white dress; a lovely frock she had found hanging up in the washroom. It was breathable, delicate, and striking in its simplicity…with a sloping neckline embroidered with tiny blue flowers. She remembered then that Raoul had called Claudia a seamstress, so she figured that her calloused hands had crafted this flowing masterpiece.

Instead of pinning her hair up as she normally would, instead she pinned only the top half into a twist, yet left the back section of her curls to cascade freely. As she arranged some of her tresses over the front of her shoulders, she glanced at herself in the mirror; a pink tinge still colored her cheeks from the bath, and for a moment, she almost felt like a queen…

As she began her descent downstairs, she heard a stampede of footsteps, and two curly heads suddenly barreled into her arms. “ _Maman_!” The twins shouted, hugging her tightly around the waist. “We were worried about you!” Lillian said, staring up at her mother with wide amber eyes. “Claudia made us not disturb you…but we wanted to go sleep upstairs with you!” Marie tugged on her mothers’ hand. “But we wanted to! We tried but Claudia said you were so tired, and we had to let you rest.”

“Oh, my loves,” Christine smiled as she bent down to kiss them each on the forehead, “Yes, Claudia was right; I was very exhausted. But I am feeling so much better now!”

“Yesssssssss! Then you can come to the market with us this morning? Claudia said she would take us, but she wasn’t sure if you would be well enough to go…please say you’ll go?” Marie begged, not letting go of her mother’s hand. “Yes, _maman_ , please?” Lillian pleaded alongside her sister. “It’s our very first adventure here, and the Queen has to go with the princesses! What would they do without her?”

Christine laughed. “Why, do I look indisposed to you?” she asked as she twirled around, letting the pearly skirts of the dress flow; a flurried cloud amidst the sunrise of the morning. The twins shrieked with glee, mimicking their mother’s twirling immediately. “We will go to the market, we shall see the lands!” Marie announced as she spun, holding her arms out wide, stretching as if to reach the horizon. Christine spun again, this time attempting it on the edge of her toes, brushing a foot along the ground and moving into a whirl, holding her arms in a graceful arc. _The beginning of a waltz,_ she thought to herself. The twins stared in awe. “ _Maman_ …how did you do _that_? Teach us? Teach us please!” Christine laughed again. “Another secret is revealed, my princesses! For you did not know that your Queen, so many years ago, was a ballet dancer, now did you? Well she can do much more than that!”

The twins ran to their mother, begging for more. “I want to know how you went up on your toes like that!” Lillian said incredulously, staring at her mother as if a halo were nestled into her dark curls. “How can a person balance like that?”

“All in good time, my angels! We shall have a lesson tonight, how about that? A private lesson, from the Queen herself!” she curtsied deeply for the girls, bowing her head dramatically. The twins clapped crazily, their eyes wide with newfound wonder.

The front door swung open and Claudia strode in, wearing light brown riding pants with a billowing white cotton shirt tucked in. Her hair was in the usual tautly parted braid of gold that trailed over her left shoulder. She clasped her hands together, immediately pleased to see Christine in the flowing white dress. “Oh my goodness! Dear, you are a sight to behold in that! I kept it hanging upstairs because Lord _knows_ I wouldn’t look dashing in such a thing…but you are a _vision_!” she stared in awe at Christine. “I was planning on trying to sell it at the market, but now that I’ve seen you in it…well I simply know that it was made for you!”

“She looks like a fairy in it!” Marie added. “The fairy from our stories!”

“Yes child, indeed she does,” Claudia smiled down at the flushed little girl. “Now, are we ready to go to the market? It’s quite busy this time of morning, but I’ve a couple things I need to pick up…Christine, you shall be joining us, yes?”

“Oh yes! I am feeling so much better…and how could I let this lovely dress go unseen?” she laughed and did a partial twirl, and the twins cried out in delight. “ _Maman_ the ballerina! The ballerina…with _wings_!” Lillian sang, lifting her arms in an arc. Marie giggled, imitating her sister, and together they started twirling. “We will be dancers too!”

“Alright girls, settle down. We will be taking the horses to the market. Christine, I thought you could ride with Lillian, and I will take Marie! Now how does that sound?” she looked at the twins with a wink of mystique in her blue eyes. The twins twirled across the floor, then began to race outside to the stables. “I want the black one!” shouted Lillian.

“Oh, Lillian loves that stallion,” Claudia said to Christine as the twins disappeared out the front door. “She took a great interest in him when I showed them the stables yesterday. Strange though, because he’s quite ornery…and very particular about those who ride him. He took a liking to the girl right away. Surprised the daylight out of me.”

“Is this the same stallion you said immediately wasn’t for sale? When we first arrived, yesterday?” Christine asked, suddenly curious. “Yes, that’s the one. I bought him from a friend. That horse is worth a lot of money…but to me, he’s more than that. Sometimes I just sit out in the garden and watch him run. The power and beauty of that animal…well, it’s hard to put into words. No price could ever sway me from him,” Claudia shook her head. “And many have tried, which is why I was wary of your carriage…oh, but anyways…perhaps he will take a liking to you as well. If not, I can ride him instead and take Lillian.”

The two women walked out the front entrance and headed to the left of the house, past the shaded side entrance of the crooked tree. The stables were small yet sturdily built, shaded by two large trees that twisted high up into the atmosphere; dual ancient guardians that watched over the horses.

To both Christine and Claudia’s shock, Lillian was already leading the lean black stallion out of the stables, darker than the deep of an inkwell. She was holding up an apple, leading the great beast slowly, as he took big continuous bites of the ripe red fruit from her tiny hands. Lillian was laughing, and she reached up and touched his nose, rubbing it softly. “Good boy, Viktor! How are you this morning? I hope you slept alright!”

Claudia turned to Christine, raising her eyebrows. “Isn’t that a sight?”

Christine, spurred on by her young daughter’s comfortable nature around this horse, slowly walked forward. She approached them, reaching her hand out softly. “Viktor,” she said softly, looking into the black eyes of the stallion. “I know you don’t know me…I am Lady Christine,” she bowed slowly in front of the horse, sweeping her leg delicately behind her. “It would be my greatest pleasure if we could be friends…” she reached out further, slowly, tantalizingly… although she did not feel fear. Deep in his eyes she could see his soul clearly, and indeed he was wise, yet wary…but why?

Her hand touched his soft black nose, stroking it softly. “I’m sure you know what it’s like to be misunderstood. People don’t see you. But I do, sweet Viktor…” she was whispering now, close enough to see deeper into his darkened ink pools of eyes. “You are wise. You are gentle. You’re just afraid to let people see how gentle you are. You see, I’m afraid of that too,” she added gently, stroking her hand up and down his silky muzzle.

“Well, it’s apparent that he’s accepted you as well,” Claudia spoke as she came walking up, holding a large leather saddle. She began strapping it to Viktor, who waited patiently, still examining Christine with intense black eyes. “Now climb on up,” she instructed, stepping back after her work was done. She brushed her hands on her pants, and went to saddle up the second horse.

Christine crossed around to Viktor’s side, stroking him slowly with gentle fingers. She kept speaking to him softly…and with a swift movement, swung herself up into the saddle, praying that he would not buck her after she had gripped his mane for support. To her relief, he stayed patient and quiet, swishing his tail softly to fight off a couple of flies.

“Come, sweet Lill,” Christine said, holding her hand down for Lillian to grasp. The saddle was large, and Lillian hopped up onto the back with ease, hugging her mother around the waist for support.

Claudia emerged from the stables on a massive chestnut colored horse, with muscles that rippled in the sunlight; a bronze shield. “Oh my!” Christine gasped at the beauty of this animal. Marie sat on the back, with her arms around Claudia’s waist, clutching on for dear life. “I feel like I’m a hundred feet off the ground!” Marie said laughing, although Christine could hear worry in her voice. It appeared Claudia sensed her worry as well, for she put a hand over Marie’s and announced, “Not to worry, child! This is Enzo, and although he seems a giant, I can promise you that he’s secretly a lover, not a fighter!”

They set off then, at a steady canter. Soon enough Marie had forgotten her worries, for she was crying out with joy, waving one hand in the air to Christine and Lillian. “I feel as though I’m flying! And twin, it looks like you’re flying too!”

The road wound deep into the green woods, where sunlight barely peeked through the knitted quilt of the trees above. But shortly after they had entered the woods, the road broke out into a large open area, where a few buildings began to contour the road. As the group continued along under a cloudless blue sky, many more people seemed to crowd the streets…and the more huddled together the buildings seemed as well.

Claudia veered Enzo off into a small shaded area on the side of one stonewashed building, where there was a large tin water trough. She slipped gracefully out of Enzo’s saddle, and lifted Marie down from the great muscled beast. Christine did the same, slipping gently out of the saddle, stroking Viktor’s neck as she did so. Lillian jumped down on her own, beaming with pride. “I did it, Viktor! Oh, you ride so gracefully! Just like a prince!” she turned to Claudia. “Will we just leave them here? What if someone tries to take them?”

“Don’t worry, my dear…my boys know the way home. If any foul play comes afoot, they always handle themselves well,” she smiled, stroking Lillian’s worried face.

“Alright girls, now pay attention,” Claudia placed her hands on her hips, her mouth forming a thin line. “The market is very chaotic, very busy…make sure to always be holding one of our hands. It is easy to get lost in a fevered morning crowd. Understand?”

They both nodded, trying to contain their excitement. “Yes Claudia, understood! We will stay close!” Marie sang gleefully, while fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “Can we go into the market now?”

Claudia sighed, looking at Christine. “Yes, but remember the rules!”

They left the two horses in the tiny shaded area, and to Christine’s absolute horror; Claudia had been right. The market was _actually_ packed in the streets; carts were everywhere, merchants were hollering, and people bustled and scuttled about like ants, quick to get to the fresh morning pickings faster than the next.

The group of four stayed in a line linked with hands, making their way through the bustle, with Claudia in the lead. She led them first to a fruit stand, starting an immediate argument with the merchant about his overpriced apples; she seemed to have done this many times…

A surge in the crowd unexpectedly broke through the throng of the four, separating Christine and Lillian from Claudia and Marie…a couple men had pushed their way through, paying no mind to the girls…arguing amongst each other about the butcher’s newest and overpriced meats…

Before she could even begin to search the crowd for Claudia, Christine heard a loud voice behind her. “Hey purple face!” she turned abruptly to see a group of teenage boys that had gathered around Lillian, who was in the back of the hand-linked line. “Yeah, you! Your mother must have hated you when you came screaming out of her womb!” one of the boys sneered. Another stepped forward, sticking his face close to Lillian’s…and shouted, “Ugly! Ugly purple face! You don’t even have a whole face…half a face! Half a face!” the whole group screamed with laughter. Christine was so horrified she found she could not speak, her throat had dried up, and her heart was pounding against her ribcage…she gripped Lillian’s hand tighter, and stepped forwards, ready to protect, to lunge, to do anything…

But something happened. Seemingly out of nowhere, a great black dog leapt in front of Lillian. The dog was muscular, lean, and dominant in stance, standing with a proud chest and pointed ears that stood erect. The boys laughed again, pointing at the dog. “Oh do you think your doggy friend scares us? I eat shit like him for _dinner_!”

The dog instantly pounced forward, baring its teeth at the boy who stood in the front of the group. A loud growl rumbled in its throat, and its ears stood taller…and then the dog lunged.

The boy in the front screamed as the dog leapt up and snapped its jowls in his face, catching the neckline of his shirt and tearing it into a shred that was left hanging. The boy screamed, kicking the dog in the ribs, but the beast turned quickly with nimble form and latched its jaws into his calf.

Over the boys’ scream and Christine’s pounding heart, she then heard a voice like thunder cut through the disordered noises of the crowd. “Magnus, _AUS_!” The dog immediately released the leg of the boy, who now laid on the ground, bleeding from his wound, screaming obscenities. The rest of the group rapidly disbanded, scattering in every direction.

Christine looked around frantically, then her eyes fell on a man. He was walking through the crowd with ease as if crossing the red sea; the crowd seemed to open up to his presence.

The man was powerfully built, dressed in leather boots, with high-buttoned black riding breeches. His shirt was slack, draped onto his large frame, dark rough looking cotton with the sleeves rolled up… cut deeply enough that it exposed a part of his chest, revealing sparse dark hair… Christine locked eyes with the man, and found suddenly, that she could not look away.

His eyes were a deep green…or were they blue? They seemed a mixture of the two …like seaweed blending with ocean water, pulling and pushing with the tide’s command…and his face. His face was robust, defined, with full lips, and one dark eyebrow…yet the other side of his face looked as though it had been severely burned. It was marred, from what she could see, reaching almost behind his ear, running along the bridge of his nose…pink and red damaged skin…and a mess of scar tissue where his right eyebrow should have been. His hair was shaved on both sides; the right side seeming to match the burnt looking skin, and the other perhaps, to be symmetrical…his hair was dark, almost black, and it was neatly oiled and slicked to the nape of his neck.

He stared back at her, walking closer through the crowd, opening his lips for another sound, yes… “Magnus, _hier_!” his voice. That voice. It ripped open the skies, cut through the noise, cut through her skin…its projection, its bellowing tone, deep and soft, yet ever so clear…that _voice_ …

The dog instantly ran to him and sat directly in front of him, pointed ears flattened now…the man stroked the dogs head, but continued advancing towards Christine and a now sobbing Lillian, who was hiding her face in her mother’s dress…and the boy still lay on the ground, screaming in pain.

The man walked up, finally ripping his gaze from Christine. He stooped down to the boy on the ground, and roughly grabbed him by the chin. “What the fuck?” the boy screamed, “Can’t you see your stupid animal _bit_ me?”

“He bit you because I commanded him to. Do you want to know why?” the man tightened his grip on the boys chin. Christine could see scars of all sorts covering the man’s exposed forearms, some pink, some white…lash marks, bites…and some she could not even recognize in their form…

“I’m in pain, for fucks sake! I don’t care why!” the boy howled, trying to wrench his face out of the man’s grasp, but failed quite miserably.

“Let this be a cautionary tale, to you and your miserable _friends_. If I see you, or any other member of your little _pack_ utter such as one word to this little girl again, you will have more than my dog to contend with…next, you will face _me_ ,” the man growled, tightening his grip on the boys chin and forcing him to look straight into his eyes. “ _Understand?”_

“Yes, I fucking get it! Now leave me alone! _Please_!” The man released his grip from the boy, and the boy scrambled up, bleeding calf and all, and half limped away from the man, his form soon disappearing into the roar of the market.

The man turned around, and took a couple steps towards Christine and Lillian, whose sobs were muffled by the delicate white dress. “Here,” he spoke gently then, his entire demeanor changing instantly before Christine’s eyes, “I believe you dropped something.”

Lillian slowly turned, her face stained with snot and tears. Her eyes locked with the man’s, and she let go of her mother’s dress, slowly looking at what he had extended in a large calloused hand.

It was a flower. A bright purple blossom, with a thin green stem, cut at the base. Lillian stared down at the flower. “It’s…it’s…purple…”

“And that,” he said, leaning forwards, for now he knelt on the ground before her… “Is exactly why it’s yours, little princess,” he reached up gently and slowly, and tucked it into her frenzied curls, behind her right ear.

Lillian stared at him. Slowly, she reached out and touched the right side of his face…the marred side. Christine froze, unable to move, to think, to react. Her voice was stolen again, her throat was dry…she only stared at this man, kneeling in the dirt, as her daughter touched his face, a purple flower nestled in her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I always say, and will continue to say, if you love this story (or even dislike it) or have any feedback whatsoever, please do review. It is my only view into my readers’ thoughts. And I love to hear thoughts, feelings, emotions, anything really. But please take the time and review. It means the world to me, more than you know.


	8. Fräulein der Nacht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all of my reviewers who are ecstatic about Erik’s appearance. Now that he has arrived, there will be much more of him to come :) This chapter is indeed much shorter than the last, but it is because chapter 9 will be a very big scene, as you will understand at the end of this chapter. As always, please continue to review; as each piece of feedback absolutely makes my day! It fuels my passion for this story further to hear all the thoughts of my readers, and how they are responding to the story. That being said…please enjoy and let me know all of your wondrous thoughts! 
> 
> Kleine prinzessin: German for “little princess.”
> 
> So, without further ado…

“Your face…it’s…” Lillian whispered, outlining the marred pink tissue with her hand softly, “it’s like _mine_.” The man smiled then, so wide that the corners of his mouth creased and dimpled.

“I would say mine is like a mountain; rough and ragged, with peaks and valleys…yours, _kleine prinzessin,_ is like a river that runs through the valley. They are both connected, yet both different.” He reached out and touched her face, stroking a finger softly down Lillian’s discoloration. “A smooth and beautiful river, that ebbs and flows with the wind.”

“But if its so beautiful…why do people say things? Why did they say…I only had…half a face?” she whispered to him, desperately seeking an answer that would fill her sadness…that would make it go away. The man sighed, feeling her sorrow as if it were his own… “Someone wise once told me that a birthmark is an injury from a past life,” he said softly, with a spark of mystery in his blue-green eyes. “So, you must had been a warrior riding into battle, laced across the face by a sword, a sharp blade…” he said, sweeping a finger down the ridge of her nose. At this, Lillian’s eyes brightened, fascinated. “But how do you know that’s true?”

“Because I believe it for myself; I dream of it, what it would have been like…who I might have been,” he said gently. “Perhaps a warrior, alongside you…yet I was thrown off my horse, plunged halfway into a fire…and you kept riding off into the distance!”

Lillian laughed then, grabbing the man’s rough hand in her own. “But who were we defending?”

“Hmm,” he stood up, holding her hand tightly as his eyes fell upon Christine. “A great Queen…of abounding power, and of noble beauty.”

Christine’s heart was fluttering inside of her chest. His eyes were like being kissed by the ocean, beckoned by a soft wind… _God, Christine, speak! Say something, anything!_

There she stood, a mute again…but this time it was different, somehow. What was it that stole her words, this time? What was it that dried up her throat, that twisted her tongue…that silenced her ravenous thoughts?

Claudia suddenly burst into their circle with Marie by the hand, clutching a leather sack that looked filled to the brim. “Erik!” she cried, dropping the bag of fruit while running forward to embrace him. Through their embrace, Lillian never let go of his hand.

Claudia stepped back, surveying the bizarre scene before her; Christine, who was still rooted to the spot standing silently; Lillian, who still grasped Erik by the hand, as if holding on for dear life…“Did…something happen? Where’s Magnus?” Claudia asked, raising an eyebrow.

Christine found her voice then, turning to Claudia, breaking Erik’s gaze… “There was a group of boys that cornered Lill…and, well…” her voice faded then, unsure of how to put the entirety of it all into words…

“He saved me! Erik’s big dog bit the mean boy on the leg…then he went up and told him to leave me alone! They protected me, like…like _knights_!” Lillian explained eagerly. Now it seemed more of an adventure to her, rather than an atrocious memory filled with words that burned.

Erik laughed again. His laugh was deep, smooth, and melodic…Christine suddenly hated herself for loving its sound. She hated the blush that had spread onto her cheeks as she heard it…and she hated the way her heart still fluttered; a bird knocking its wings against the door of its cage…

“I saw a _kleine prinzessin_ in danger, and I had to respond accordingly,” he smiled again down at Lillian. “What does that mean?” she asked curiously. “Little princess,” he responded. “I believe it is quite fitting for you.”

“Well!” Claudia placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “We get separated for one minute and of course there’s trouble! Thank you Erik…you know how chaotic the market can get. Perhaps you will come for dinner this evening? A proper thanks for saving our dear Lillian,” she smiled at him, and Christine’s heart dropped into her stomach. She turned to Christine. “Ah, yes, forgive me Christine, proper introductions…Erik Dietrich, he’s our neighbor, of sorts…he lives an acre or so behind the cottage. It’s a bit of a walk, but quite near by horseback…why, he’s the friend I was telling you about that sold me Viktor!”

Christine nodded numbly. _So that explains the voice,_ she thought. _It was him. It was undoubtedly him, singing in the forest…as I stood in the moonlight and listened, and I felt…as if I were not here, but somewhere else…_

An ecstatic Lillian, who was pulling on Erik’s hand and twirling dramatically in a circle, dragged Christine from her thoughts. “So you’re coming, right? And Magnus too?” she looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Please say yes!”

He smiled down at her, adjusting the flower in her hair. “If it pleases the little princess, I suppose I cannot object.”

“Well then you can’t object to the princess asking for a ride on your shoulders? You’re _tall!_ ” Lillian pulled on his hand insistently. “Please? I want to see over all the crowds!”

“If her mother does not object?” he looked at Christine, one corner of his mouth cocking slightly. “Yes, I suppose it should be fine, considering how… _fond_ she has become of you,” Christine found herself saying in a rather stern voice. “Lillian, be careful…”

She watched as this man, _Erik_ , swept Lillian up onto his shoulders with ease. Lillian squealed, taken by surprise with the powerful and swift momentum. Sitting atop his broad shoulders, she placed her hands on his head for support, resting them in his dark and slicked back hair. “I can see everything!” she exclaimed. “Twin, look at me! I’m princess of the land!”

Marie giggled. “I want to see, too! Twin, what do you see? Can you see where the horizon ends? Tell me, tell me!”

The group slowly made their way through the crowd, back to where Claudia had left the two horses. Somewhere along the way, Erik had called out a command casually, and the great black dog came running from somewhere within the crowd. He trotted alongside his master, staying close at his heel; he was incessantly on guard, or so it seemed.

Upon their arrival to the shaded area where Enzo and Viktor waited patiently, Erik lifted Lillian carefully down from his shoulders. She was giggling and twirling, as if she had just seen all of the earth and the heavens in between.

“Erik, we shall be seeing you this evening, then? Let’s say, half past six? I’ve got a bit of sewing and housework to do, but we should be tidied up and ready for you around then!” Claudia said as she strapped her leather satchel to Enzo’s saddle. “Yes, of course, and I wouldn’t dare be late, Mademoiselle,” he said through a smile, and turned to Lillian, who seemed to be waiting patiently for a private goodbye from her protector. He kneeled down again, taking her small hand in his. He bowed his head dramatically, “Until we meet this evening, _kleine prinzessin.”_ Lillian giggled and returned his gesture in a clumsy curtsy. She twirled away from him, all the way into Claudia’s arms who lifted her into Viktor’s saddle. Christine was about to turn and make her way toward the horses, when she felt his eyes on her, and he spoke to her softly, almost a whisper. “It was a song my father sang for me when I was young.”

Christine turned sharply, utterly bewitched and horrified at his words. “I’m sorry…what song are you referring to exactly, that’d I’d be oh so familiar with?” she felt her tone cold, although inside her heart was screaming… _this man saved your daughter from public mockery…yet all you can think about is your pride…_

“I saw you,” he whispered gently. Suddenly he was close, closer than she had anticipated, and she was desperately lost in those sea-green eyes… “Up on the balcony. You heard me singing, last night.”

_He saw you. You were there, the entire night…until morning came. He saw you…_

Christine blushed heavily, relieved that Claudia was keeping the girls preoccupied on the horses. “I…I went out for some air,” she stuttered, averting her eyes from his.

“Sometimes I cannot sleep. I walk a path in the forest…yet last night was the first time I ever saw someone…anyone, atop that balcony. Listening so intently, I might add.” His eyes bore into her, prodding her, exposing her…

“I…well…it…was pleasant,” she managed to force out, stunned by the sudden feeling of vulnerability that came over her, dripping onto her skin like hot wax, drying in tiny circles that stung…

“You seemed…entranced, I suppose would be the correct word.”

“I was _not_ entranced! I couldn’t sleep either, I was simply _listening_!” she retorted back indignantly. “ _Forgive_ me if a voice in the middle of the night in the midst of a dark forest was a _first_ for me!”

“Hmm,” he chuckled, which enraged her. “Yet you stayed out until morning.”

“I…I fell asleep! And I don’t need explain myself to you! I don’t even know you!”

“You weren’t sleeping. Unless of course, you sleep with your eyes open,” he chuckled again, a smile playing at his full lips.

“You are impossible! Allow me to take my leave now, _Monsieur_!” she finished angrily, pursing her lips together and stalking past him.

“ _Au revoir_ , _Fräulein der Nacht,_ ” he responded as she strode away from him. Christine halted in her tracks, not recognizing his second phrase. She whirled around angrily. “And what exactly did you call me, _Monsieur_?”

His eyes gleamed mischievously. “Miss of the Night. I thought it quite fitting for you.”

She strode up to him, seething with anger. “You will call me _Christine_ , not Miss of the Night, not _anything else!_ ” Magnus sat at his master’s side, staring up at the irate young woman with wild curls. He let out a soft whine, stretching out his legs while slowly lowering himself into the down position. The beast heaved a great sigh, as if thinking to himself, _this may take awhile…_

“Yes, but of course, anything you say, _Fräulein,_ ” Erik responded, a playful smirk still upon his lips. Christine glared at him; placing her hands upon her hips. She was at a loss for words… _why do I feel so defensive? Why can’t I just tell him yes, I listened until dawn…so what?_

“ _Au revoir, Monsieur_!” she spat bitterly, swirling her white skirts as she strode away from him. She swung herself up onto Viktor, and looked over at Claudia, who seemed to be in the midst of telling the twins a story. “Claudia, I’d much like to get out of here,” Christine said tensely, giving Viktor a kick in the side. The horse took off magnificently, and Christine felt Lillian’s arms tighten around her waist as they seemingly sailed off upon the wings of the wind.

Her thoughts were a tumultuous whirlwind as she urged the horse forward and into the protection of the woods, out of that wretched marketplace…and out of the sight of _his_ eyes. This man….Erik…the way he looked at her made her feel _vulnerable_ ; as if her every thought were exposed to the world, the open air… It was as if his eyes could see through her; no, see _into_ her…could he see the abyss? The searing pain, the binds that held her by the wrists? Could he see that she was just a nightingale with clipped wings, locked away? Could he feel her drowning?

And his voice… He had known, he had seen. She had been entranced, she had kneeled for hours just listening to his achingly beautiful song… _he had seen._ What was she to say, to do? What kind of a woman kneeled on a stone balcony for hours, listening to a voice that pierced her soul ever so? What kind of a woman sat in a trance, longing to burst forth with song, for her voice to intertwine with his?

_Fräulein der Nacht…_ those words spilled off of his lips like honey. She had become angry at the way his words had played with her mind, with her spirit, molding her like clay…seeing into her dark little world that she kept so perfectly locked away.

_Miss of the Night…_ and he was right. It was quite fitting. For it was the only time she could ever _truly_ be herself, when everyone had fallen fast asleep…when the windows were open, when she breathed in the atmosphere…singing lightly; softly to a dark night sky…a nightingale, a woman in blood red…singing, aching, dying…

_He had seen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave any thoughts, comments, emotions, or feedback! Each review makes my day!


	9. Meadows of heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all my readers and Guests that have reviewed. Here is the anxiously anticipated “dinner” scene that you all have been waiting for! For my readers, please continue to review, and give me your feedback…as I always say, it helps to continue writing this knowing that there are readers out there falling in love with my characters and story. So, please leave a review! Short and sweet, or long and detailed, leave anything you desire to say...every single review makes my day.
> 
> That being said, and without further ado...

_There was blood on my hands, on your hands; a mirror, singeing my skin…draining me, draining you…yet you curled into me, and I was alive._

_I whispered to you, and you would understand; I spoke, and you stood still. But your love turned cold, and I cried out; my lips parted, dried and bleeding…yet I could not make a sound. You pulled apart my skin, you ravaged my very spirit…when before, you had stitched me back together, you had sewn me up, a useless doll….you had embroidered my loneliness, my ripples of fear… You would smile when I looked upon you…you had smiled. Yet you began pulling me, ripping me, murdering softly, slowly…and there was so much blood; my blood…and I became angry, and I hated you…and I loved you…_

Christine sat in the garden, hidden away in the back of the cottage, surrounded by walls of foliage and sweet blooms. Claudia had arrived back soon after Christine had raced off upon Viktor’s’ wings, and now tended to the twins in the kitchen for their late breakfast after the disordered events of the morning at the market…

Christine had spoken very little to Claudia. She had smiled numbly when Claudia mentioned preparing fruits and bread for breakfast, yet she could not eat. Her stomach felt empty, yet the void of her heart and spirit felt dark…shading charcoal over the physiological needs of her body…burning them away, starving her…ruining her…

She let tears fall, then…here, alone… Hidden away in the protection of green vines and sharp trees…where no one would see. Where no one could see how broken she really was.

The back door opened, and Claudia stepped out into the garden. Christine looked up at her, quickly attempting to wipe away her tears, but it was too late; Claudia had seen her eyes, her face…and the wretched sorrow that lay writhing within the deep of her soul.

Claudia approached her, kneeling at the foot of the bench where she sat, placing a hand on Christine’s knee. “My darling,” she murmured, a mother of comfort, of shelter…Christine’s only freedom from pain. “Please tell me what is troubling you so?”

“God,” Christine sobbed, covering her hands with her face. “Claudia…I cannot be this woman. I cannot be who he needs me to be. A man that I’ve never met before did more for my daughter than my own husband ever had…what is a woman, a wife, to make of this? Am I simply to wear a mask, to pretend I didn’t _see_? Am I to hide myself forever…He is their _father_! Yet he bleeds me dry…he asked me to send Lillian away. Because of his family, and her birthmark…and what it would mean for the De Chagny aristocratic reputation…How sick? How murderous can people’s words and thoughts be? He was killing me softly, over time…I was dying, Claudia! And I fear that I still am,” her voice broke, with shoulders shaking… through with hiding the endless pain…through with pretending she was strong, when deep inside her lay demons that bred; feeding upon her living flesh, whispering in her ear before bed, laying sickening traps within her dreams, her vile and endless nightmares…

Claudia moved up to the bench swiftly, shielding Christine with calm and calloused wings. “Oh, my sweet love… _none_ of this is your fault. None of it,” she said softly, stroking Christine’s matted curls; twisted and tangled from Viktor’s powerful canter.

“No, you don’t understand…this is _all_ my fault, the blame lies bleeding upon my very flesh!” Christine cried. “I could have stayed at the Opera Populaire; I could have kept singing, dancing, performing…I could have done what my heart was telling me all along! But I was a _stupid_ little girl…I fell into Raoul’s arms and thought he would heal all of my pain. But no man can do such a thing…No man is capable! I became weak, helpless to him…wanting someone, anyone! I had no one, Claudia! My father was gone, and Raoul was all I had left of him…the memories are what led me into this twisted and deranged trap…this sickness upon my life! I am sick, I cannot breathe…even though he is not here! I fear I will never be free. I have loved too quickly…loved too soon! Loved without even knowing my own _soul_!”

“Sweet spirit,” Claudia murmured. “If you would have stayed, you would have never had your beautiful girls…for there are things in life that are tragedies, yes…the loss of the pieces and shards of our souls, sometimes…but there are always little blossoms that grow from that pain. And those blossoms, I believe, are your daughters.”

Christine laid down on the bench, weary with burden, with anger…with pain that threatened to rip her wide open. She laid her head in Claudia’s lap, and for the first time in a long time, she wept without care.

Claudia stroked her curls, over and over…brushing fingers along her cheeks, humming a lullaby, perhaps… “You can start anew, my love. Anyone can. It is our right as human beings; it is what God asks of us on this earth. To let go of our pain, to let our anger dissipate…to heal from what has been tormenting you. That is what he would want. And, I believe, what your father would have wanted as well.”

“So what am I to do? Who is Raoul to me now? For I fear I am forgetting his face…his touch, his love…or have I merely been living off of our memories? Of my childhood…when our love was naught but a fresh bud waiting to bloom? I took off my ring. I left him, weeping and crying…I left him broken. I fear I have damaged him, just as he has damaged me…”

Claudia put a finger under Christine’s chin and lifted it gently; she smiled down at this beautiful woman, laying in pieces strewn about her lap… “Child, you are to _live_. You must let go of that pain…you must give yourself the time to break your own chains. Sing as you’ve never sung before; dance with spirit and passion as you’ve never dared before…and live; live boldly, brazenly…as you have never lived…up until this very moment.”

Christine sat up and embraced her. For a while, the two women sat, holding each other tightly…as the birds chirped and sang, a harmony of liberation… _Christine!_ They sang, _Christine! Free yourself, little bird…no man is capable…break these binds that hold your spirit! Christine! Wash the blood off of your dress, your heart, your soul…the abyss can be patched up and forgotten…it’s time to let go…_

The rest of the morning stretched lazily into afternoon, which Claudia spent anxiously arranging the slight disarray of the cottage. Christine had been able to eat a few pieces of fruit after the conversation in the garden, and although it was hard to choke down…her heart felt lighter, somehow…as if speaking her thoughts aloud to this woman had shoved a bit into the demons mouth; the demon that preyed upon her mind…

The twins were eager to help with the cleaning of the house. They had been tasked with the sweeping and scrubbing of the floorboards; so while Marie scrubbed away with a bristled wooden brush, Lillian followed behind her with towels, drying the path of luminescent bubbles.

The girls giggled and sang the whole time, occasionally standing up to spin and twirl. “Tell me about being on Erik’s shoulders!” Marie begged her sister as they worked. Christine sat at the kitchen table, tracing her finger around the edge of her coffee cup… overseeing her daughters’ diligent work, ensuring that they did not miss a single spot, for Claudia would surely disapprove. Lost in her own thoughts, the name _Erik_ ripped her mind from its depths, and she began to listen intently to her angels as they scrubbed and dried…

“It was like seeing the whole world!” Lillian exclaimed. “I wasn’t even scared! Well, maybe a little at first…but he held onto me tight! I could see everyone…all the tops of their heads! And all the market stands, and even the highest windows in the tallest houses!”

Marie giggled. “What did his hair feel like?”

“It was soft, really! Kind of oily, and really smooth…like the feather of a raven!”

“But you’ve never touched a raven, twin!” Marie laughed. “Yes, but I like to imagine that’s what a raven’s wing might feel like,” Lillian added, giggling.

“He seemed so nice. And brave, too. He reminded me of a knight, although…not like a regular knight,” Marie pondered. “A knight that was cast out, maybe…because he was stronger and more powerful than the rest! Maybe that’s why he wears all black clothes.”

“He told me that I was a warrior in my past life…I guess meaning that I had lived before? I don’t really know…I want to ask him more about it tonight! I can’t wait,” Lillian exclaimed, touching the purple flower that she still kept tucked in her curls.

Christine sighed from where she was sitting. She recalled her outburst and defensiveness to Erik before she had raced off… _how impulsive of me to become so angry towards him... And why did I feel so angry? Because he had seen me listening? Why couldn’t I have just admitted it? Would it have been so wrong to speak the truth aloud, to let the words slip from my lips? Wouldn’t it have released a part of me, a lie of the life I’ve been living? A façade of the woman I’ve become?_

Christine decided she would apologize, perhaps…this man had defended her daughter when no one else had…when the marketplace was so full of people, yet no one had stopped to help, no one…yet _he_ came from across the market, through the ocean of people, the chaotic storm of the crowd…calling out commands for his protective beast like a war general…parting the red sea as he strode…

It was decided. She would be cordial with him, apologize to him…For Lillian, who was captivated by her newfound savior and this precious gift he had given her; the gift of pure love, of acceptance…to a girl whose name he did not even know.

When the twins were finished with the floors, and Claudia had arranged the kitchen and sitting room to her liking, it was late afternoon; almost five o’clock. Claudia had rewarded the twins’ outstanding floor scrubbing with some pecan biscuits that she had bought from the market. As the twins sat devouring their treats, with Christine sitting elegantly beside them, Claudia stood at the front of the kitchen table, hands on her hips.

“Alright, now listen up, my sweets. I have dresses for all of you to wear…hopefully the ones I have in mind fit properly,” she said, eyeing the twins who were deeply invested in their biscuits. “And you, my dear…why I have something very special for you to wear.” Claudia extended a hand gracefully to Christine, smiling deeply at her. “Come dear, you must wash up, and I must show you the dress.”

By a quarter past six o’ clock, Claudia had the twins bathed and ready in their new frocks. Lillian wore a blue flower-printed dress that swished and floated when she walked, complete with a purple ribbon tied around her tiny waist. Marie had been dressed in a light pink gown that shimmered when the evening light touched through the kitchen window. Both girls were overjoyed at Claudia’s dresses, and were already spinning like ballerinas around the kitchen table, throwing their arms out in clumsy arcs. “The princesses have _arrived_!” sang Marie, spinning her pink gown and attempting a tiny leap. “Oh, you both shall impress Erik, I am sure!” Claudia laughed, watching the girls as they swirled and spun their skirts.

Suddenly, there was a firm knock at the front door. “Goodness!” Claudia cried, smoothing her hands upon the plain and dark blue frock that she wore. Her hair, usually worn in a golden braid, had been twisted up on the top of her head, pinned with perfection and sophistication. “He is early! My God…I should have known he would be early! That man is always so punctual.”

“He’s here! He’s here!” Lillian squealed, rushing to the front door, bunching her skirts up in one hand. She opened the door, revealing her beloved protector who stood in the midst of evening light. Magnus sat next to him, wearing a thick leather collar studded with brass and silver.

Erik looked dashing; he was donned in black leather riding breeches, with dark suede cavalry boots ending just below the knees. He wore a striking gray silken shirt that was neatly tucked into his breeches, unbuttoned at the top just enough for his chest to peek through, with a silvery loose chain that glimmered from underneath.

His hair was slicked back neatly, his face smoothly shaven…and in his left hand he held two roses. He grinned upon the sight of Lillian, and kneeled before her, bowing his head as he presented a red rose. “ _Kleine prinzessin,_ ” he said softly.

Lillian curtsied, and took the rose from his hand, which had been neatly pruned of all thorns. “It’s…it’s so beautiful!” she exclaimed, looking up at him with adoration. “And you look so handsome!”

Marie came rushing to her sister’s side in the doorway, curtsying just as Lillian had done. “The brave knight has entered! Let us honor his presence,” she giggled. Erik bowed his head once more, and offered the second rose to Marie. “A rose, for a rose,” he said softly.

Marie gasped and took the rose, studying it intensely. She tucked it up into her hair, and turned to Lillian, taking her twin’s rose and thrusting it into her curls… “There,” she said dusting off her hands. “Two crowns for two princesses!”

“Erik!” Claudia emerged behind the girls, placing her hands on their shoulders. “You look absolutely ravishing! Please, come in! And Master Magnus, you look quite dashing yourself!”

“Magnus told me he needed to look his best,” Erik said as he stepped into the cottage, smiling down at the twins. “For he was about to be in the presence of two little angels.”

The twins giggled and blushed, surrounding Magnus with open arms. They loved on him, stroking his sides, his head, and behind his ears. The dog closed his eyes, clearly enjoying being doted upon.

“Come, sit, sit!” Claudia ushered him into the kitchen, and began grabbing assorted glass bottles from the cupboard. “What will you drink? Whiskey? Wine? It seems I’ve forgotten your taste…it’s been awhile since we’ve shared drinks, I suppose!”

“Gin, Claudia, thank you,” he replied, sitting at the kitchen table. As Claudia poured an ample amount into a glass and set it before him, he reached to take a sip, but stopped suddenly…as Christine emerged into the kitchen.

Christine walked carefully across the floor, her hair cascading down her back, brushed out into soft brown tresses. She had swept a bit of red blush delicately onto her pale cheeks…yet it was Claudia’s newest dress upon her that stood as a masterpiece; a turquoise gown with folds that flowed like the ocean water, and a neckline that sloped, revealing her pale collarbone and the soft curves of her breasts.

Her eyes instantly fell upon Erik, as his eyes were quietly observing every inch of her. He looked handsome; clean-shaven and polished, with his chest slightly revealed once more.

“Good evening, Erik,” she replied softly. He continued to stare, parting his lips slightly, running a hand through his dark hair. “Forgive me, Christine,” he said finally, “For I did not expect to be in the presence of a Queen, this evening.”

She blushed slightly, hurrying then to take a seat at the kitchen table. Claudia placed a glass in front of her. “Gin, please, Claudia,” Christine said hastily, and Claudia, with eyebrows raised, began to pour the liquid into her glass.

“Gin,” Erik repeated, raising his own glass in his hand. “I suppose we both enjoy a bite in the throat every once in awhile.”

Christine blushed again, quickly taking a sip of her glass; the liquid stung her throat, yet it went down quite smoothly; a snake gliding through jungle grass. “Yes, I suppose you are right,” she said, taking another sip.

The twins came bouncing up to their mother, twirling and spinning, “ _Maman_ , look at what Erik brought us!” They motioned to the red roses that had been pushed into their curls, resting behind their ears. “Oh, how lovely,” Christine murmured, admiring the deep red of the roses in full bloom. “They are perfect for you, my princesses.” She took another sip of her drink.

Claudia served supper; another delicious stew she had concocted, with salted meats and various chopped vegetables. Lillian spent most of the suppertime chattering away to Erik, questioning him about his notion of past lives, while Marie sat captivated, absorbing his every word.

“How do we know if we’ve lived before? How is there any way to tell?” Lillian asked between bites of her stew.

Erik smiled, the corners of his mouth dimpling. He took another sip of his drink, deep in thought. “I suppose I could ask you this, little angel…how do we know what love is? We cannot touch it, taste it, hold it, or grasp it. Yet, it still exists. Why, you might ask? Because you _feel_ it, deep in your heart, little one. And that is how I know you and I, have lived before.”

Lillian stared in amazement. “But Erik, how do you know something just by a feeling?”

“Ah,” he responded, lifting his chin slightly. “It is faith, I suppose you could say. Faith in what one feels; faith that when one feels something, that it _means_ something…beyond a dream, or a wish, a desire…”

“You’re so wise!” Marie stared at him dreamily. “We came up with your backstory; you were a knight, casted out…because of your great strength and bravery! The other knights were jealous…so you set off alone…like…a lone wolf!”

Erik laughed; a deep and rough laugh, yet full and clear…Christine shivered at the sound. She took another sip of her drink, needing suddenly to numb this fluttering feeling within her chest.

“So it’s true then?” Lillian inquired. “You were a knight?”

“Not quite,” Erik chuckled, “yet I would love to imagine I had been.”

Claudia was busying herself by clearing the plates from supper, and finally she sat down, pouring a large glass of wine for herself. “You know,” she said, taking a long swig of her drink, “we should really go sit out in the garden! Christine has not yet seen the garden at night, with all the stars scattered across the heavens!”

“True to your nature, always, Claudia,” Erik said through a smile. “An artist needing to see what God has painted in the heavens.”

“Oh, you know me too well, Erik!” Claudia laughed, taking another deep drink from her glass.

“Claudia, just a moment,” Christine spoke up, fueled a bit by the gin that left her fingers tingling. “I was wondering if I could speak with Erik…privately, perhaps.”

Claudia raised her eyebrows, but nodded quickly. “But of course! Gives me more time with my wine,” she chuckled. “And I shall look after the girls, of course,” she glanced over to the twins, who again were doting upon Magnus.

Christine stood up swiftly, refilling her empty glass, and made her way to the backdoor; the doorway to the garden. _A door to another world…_

She never looked behind her, but she felt his presence, and heard his footsteps following. Her heart was pounding in her throat, and she took another sip from her glass, wishing desperately for the fluttering in her chest to soften, to stifle itself…

She heard him shut the door behind him, a thud in the midst of the quiet, separating them from the rest of the earth… and there they stood, cloaked in the night, lit only by the millions of tiny stars speckled across the black heavens above.

She turned to him slowly, and there he stood, staring with those eyes that drew water from her soul. “Erik, I…I wanted to apologize,” she spoke quickly, before he could speak or step closer. “This morning…I behaved…rather irrationally, towards you…I feel it was quite rude of me…and…” her voice trailed off, seeing his eyes soften, his lips parting gently again…running a tingle down her spine…

“I was listening, all night,” she blurted out, averting her eyes from his gaze. “You were right, I…I was entranced, somewhat…its just…I have not heard a voice, any voice, singing…for a very long time,” she finished quietly, looking back into his eyes, suddenly anxious for his response.

“You are a singer,” he responded; not a question, but a statement. She stared back at him, her soul screaming inside of her…

“Yes,” she said, almost a whisper. “And…it’s been so long, since, well…I have sung freely…as you did, in the woods. I was almost envious of you, perhaps…angry at myself…and many other things that…do not exactly make sense…to me.”

“Hmm,” he replied, looking deep in thought once more. He set his drink down on the cobbled ground of the garden, then stood back up, crossing his arms. “Well, then you should sing. Here, right now.”

“No, I couldn’t…I haven’t…well, I only sing for the girls, you see, and…”

He stepped closer, and she caught a whiff of his scent; a strange and alluring smell of wood, mixed with the musk and scent of his skin. It smelled…intoxicating.

“Sing with me, then, for I too, have not heard another voice in…quite some time,” he spoke softly, his lips parted, his eyes boring into her soul…

“I doubt we could even find a song…that we might both know,” she said hastily, taking another sip of her glass. “And…your voice, well, it’s…”

He smiled. “Rusty? Yes…I hadn’t warmed up properly that night. So I believe it is only right that you hear its fullest effect…yet, I shall only sing if you accompany me,” his eyes flickered mischievously, playfully. Christine blushed again, and felt a smile curling upon her lips.

“No, not the word I would use at all. Your voice was…simply beautiful,” she said, looking at him deeply then, and for a moment, she felt her fears fall away…the abyss was silenced, the demons thrown aside, the pain disappearing…there were only the stars above, and him, standing before her…a man with half a marred face, and eyes like the ocean’s deep…

He turned away from her then, looking at the sky. “I wrote something for you,” he said, his voice a whisper, almost lost in the breeze of the night. “When I saw you out on the balcony…forgive me, but I could not help it…forgive me…but I…must sing it for you, if you will not sing at all…”

Christine stared at him, speechless as he turned to face her, closing his eyes…parting his lips once more, and he began to sing; his deep voice resounding out past the atmosphere, into the stars and through the meadows of heaven...seeping into the places of her heart that were ravaged, empty, and restless…

_“She is lonely…she’s a child in waiting._

_Ever dreaming, ever longing…_

_She is waiting, by the windowsill,_

_She is dawning, she is dying…_

_She is hopeful, yet she’s crying…_

_Take this pain away! Take it from me, somehow…_

_To see her like this, it rips me so deep_

_To see her like this, a part of me weeps!_

_I am silent, yet she screams aloud…_

_I am bound! I am branded, I am weeping…_

_All the while, she lies sleeping!_

_And there’s nothing I can do…nothing_

_I can say! To take her pain…away…_

_She stands silent, yet I scream aloud!  
Can’t she see she’s bleeding? _

_Can’t she see she burning?_

_She stands atop her tower,_

_Watching the earth turning…_

_This maiden, enthroned in sadness,_

_Crowned in pain, deep within_

_Her madness…_

_Yet, she overflows with darkened might…_

_This flower, a bloom, this secret dreamer_

_This Miss, of the Night.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, emotions, and feedback please :)


	10. The pleasure of power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to my all of my lovely reviewers…and to all of my readers. You are the fuel that keeps my fire burning, even when it becomes hard to write. As I always say, if you are reading this story, please leave a review and let me know your thoughts. There is nothing better than getting feedback from the readers. This is why we write as authors, not purely for ourselves, but for the beauty to be felt and seen within the readers. So, that being said, please do review! As I always say, every single review makes my day, more than you know.

_No man is capable! No man can heal the depths of the soul…yet why does he breathe life into mine, he who stands in the dark, littered with stars from above? Why does my heart ache ever so…even before I saw his face, even before the marketplace…this voice I heard, within the woods…the dark parts of my heart that I dare not look at for too long. Who is he, this man that loves my daughter with such vigor and compassion…as if she were his own…who is he, that can see through my mask, my pain that I’ve locked away in the deep? He sees the abyss, he sees my sadness as if I scream it aloud…yet how does he heal? How does he make me ache, ever so? No man is capable…no man is capable…_

Christine’s thoughts were a storm, yet again. Her body was screaming, her heart was fluttering, her blood rushing…she stood watching him breathe, as the last word faded from his lips. He turned away from her then, picking up his drink swiftly off of the ground. Erik stared off into the sky as the sounds of the night surrounded them; the distant clicking of crickets, the soft touch of warm summer breeze that was dark and smooth…a raven’s feather.

Christine stared at his form in the dark silently; the stars shaped a silhouette around the muscles of his shoulders; the streaks of sweat that dampened the back of his silken shirt, revealing rippling and coiled muscles of his back that gleamed under the touch of the moon.

“How did you see me… _truly_ see me…so clearly?” she whispered into the silence, fighting the urge to desperately seek his face, to whirl him around…to drink in his eyes once more.

He turned around slowly, his brow furrowed…and his eyes met hers tenderly. His gaze left her skin tingling, his song for her still whispering in the air…resounding into the sky, branding her once more, over and over…a heated grate of iron pressing against her skin.

“I didn’t have to. It was you who revealed yourself to the forest, that night…to the moon, the earth, and everything in between…all I did was observe,” he responded quietly.

“Well I would say…you are quite observant, then.” She said to him softly.

Erik sighed deeply…as his chest rose and fell, Christine glimpsed a long white scar that peeked out from his sweat soaked shirt, a poorly healed line of terror…and suddenly without thinking, she reached out to touch its mangled surface.

Her hand did not falter as she lifted her arm, closing the distance between them. She extended a finger to his bare chest where his shirt was left unlaced, and softly stroked the scar with her finger. She felt him take a sharp breath in, as if her touch burned him, controlled him… _pleased_ him…

“This scar,” she whispered, looking up at him, suddenly a child filled with curiosity, with wonder. “How…did it happen…?”

He looked deeply into her eyes, drinking in every emotion that she gave ever so willingly…

“There are so many others…including these,” he motioned to the right side of his face. “Why does this one peak your curiosity in particular?” he asked, parting his lips once again…breathing in her scent, as she breathed in his…Christine felt the fluttering within her chest intensify; the bird inside of her ramming its wings into the door of the cage…screaming to be let free… _open the door! Open my door!_

“Perhaps you _were_ a knight, with scars such as these,” she replied, a coy smile curling at her lips. His smile curved again, dimpling the sides of his mouth. “If I tell you where this scar is from…you will know all of my secrets. And that simply just…won’t do,” he purred in a low voice. “And…you have been so focused on my scar, it seems…that you have not uttered a word about…your song,” he added, taking a sip of his drink. He turned away from her, pulling out of her reach, her grasp… He walked slowly to the stone bench that sat nestled in the darkness of the budding grove. Erik sat down on the bench, as if waiting for her…never breaking her gaze, even as he took another swallow of his drink; the liquid that bit like a viper; deadly, poisonous…cutting into his throat, numbing his fingers as it spread; an intoxicating disease.

“I don’t think you understand…what it meant to me,” Christine said softly, standing like a statue…frozen to where he had left her. “I…I have been…grieving, I suppose you could say…for how long, I cannot even remember.”

“Mmm,” was his response, and he sat very still, perched on the edge of the bench…desperate for her words to continue crashing down like rain; a storm that destroyed spring leaves from the trees…leaving them barren, naked, and vulnerable…

“When you saw me…I had just travelled a very long way, from Paris. The girls and I.”

“Oh?” he asked, smiling again. “Is that where you graced the Parisians with your performing?”

Christine looked at the ground, breaking his prolonged and intimate gaze. “Yes…I used to, years ago…before the twins were born. I have not…performed in a very long time.” Suddenly, she desperately wanted to change the subject, not wanting to lie to him, yet not wanting to reveal the entirety of her truth either… _Tell him you are married, why wouldn’t you? Or do you fear he would leave if he knew?_

“What is it you fear?” he asked gently, as if reading her thoughts. Her eyes snapped back into his gaze, her heart pounding…fearing that if she revealed her truth, he would leave her desperately alone in this garden…in _Lourmarin_ …in the confines of her cage, where her heart ached and bled…leaving a trail of red in the moonlight.

“I fear…” she began, taking in the entire sight of him, the feel of him so near to her… “I fear now that I have discovered your secret, your singing at night…you will not sing in the woods anymore.”

Erik laughed. “Yet, you forget that it is _I_ who revealed myself to you. So no, you did not discover my secret…I allowed you to discover me.”

“Well, I would have figured it out, _Monsieur_ Dietrich,” she countered playfully. “Your voice is _quite_ distinct. And shouting German commands for the entire marketplace to hear…well, I would say you gave yourself away.”

He laughed again, a deep growl of a chuckle, showing his teeth to her, which she found immensely and strangely alluring.

“I could not let those boys speak for another moment.” He responded carefully, running a hand through his hair.

“Erik…can I ask you something?” she took another sip of her drink, still standing in front of him, towering over this powerful man who sat relaxed and unmoving on the stone bench.

“Anything.”

“Why did you help my Lillian? Why did you send your dog from all the way across the market…when you could have just…looked the other way?”

He paused, looking off into the sky again. His eyes looked more blue, in the dark, glimmering like the tide that was pulled by the moon.

“I could not hear what they were saying,” he began, “but I saw their leering eyes, their contorted postures standing over her…it reminded me of the way my mother would stand over me,” he said softly, running a hand through his dark hair again.

“Your mother…she…treated you like that?”

“Yes,” he replied, looking up at her. “She did unspeakable things to me. She was angry with me all the time…for my face, well…looking the way that it does. I would try to love her the best I could, even though she would abuse me in every way imaginable…I always thought if I loved her enough, one day she might see me for _me_ , instead of some…curse, I suppose.”

“Oh Erik…I had no idea,” she murmured, taking a step closer to him. “But how is it that you ended up, well…the way that you are? You are intimidating…confident, loving…”

He laughed. “You find me intimidating?”

“Well, yes!” she exclaimed. “Purely because of your poise, the way you walk…the crowd seemed to part as you walked through!”

He stood up suddenly, now towering over her; an exchange of power. “That’s because…they know who they’re dealing with, _Fräulein_ ,” he whispered, his voice an intoxicating growl in his throat. Christine shivered at the sound, his intensity; and her heart ached in her chest...suddenly sore with yearning, with longing…a burning she could not brush from her flesh.

The back door swung open abruptly, shattering Christine’s fixation within the deep of his eyes. The twins barreled out into the garden, followed by Magnus who trotted at their heels, and a red faced Claudia whose wine spilt over her hand as she rushed after the twins.

“Erik! _Maman_!” The twins surrounded the two who stood, locked in an endless play of power; of the pleasures they inhaled deeply like dark wisps of smoke… filling each of their lungs to the brim… “Erik!” Lillian cried, throwing her arms around his waist. “Claudia says we have to go to bed…but we didn’t get to play at all! We didn’t get to dance or sing!” she pouted, looking up at him with wide eyes. He kneeled down and scooped Lillian up onto his shoulders again, with one smooth movement. Lillian screeched with laughter, setting her tiny hands upon his hair once again, just as she had done at the marketplace. “It is late, little angel,” he said, walking towards the back door of the cottage. “Yet I shall say goodnight, for I should be going as well…knights have bedtimes too, you know.”

“So you _are_ a knight! We knew it!” Marie cried as she skipped alongside Erik. He laughed and murmured, “alright, little angels…it shall be our little secret, then.”

Erik disappeared into the cottage with the twins, with Magnus following closely behind. The door swung shut, and Claudia took a seat on the stone bench, which now looked almost empty without Erik’s powerful form. “My God!” she exclaimed, taking a deep drink of her wine and wiping her hand on the front of her frock. “Those girls are a handful, Christine…I kept them occupied for as long as I could, but _all_ they could talk about was Erik…asking when he was coming back in and such! Oh, but it warms my heart that they’ve grown so close to him in such little time.”

“Yes,” Christine said softly, feeling a bit in a daze. “I lost track of time Claudia…I brought him out here to apologize…I was intolerably rude to him at the market.”

Claudia raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Dear, I had no idea…but, I do understand. You were upset. You had never seen a man stand up for your daughter the way he did…why, the man is so heroic, in nature, really…”

“Yes…so he is,” Christine murmured, her heart fluttering at the mere mention of him. _God…what is happening to me?_ She could not stop thinking about touching his white scar, seeing the sweat beads on his chest, and the dark tufts of hair…

Claudia stood up quickly, drinking the last of her wine. “Well, it is late, my dear…Erik should be leaving soon, and we should say our goodbyes, of course.”

The two women made their way back into the cottage, where the twins were twirling in circles like clumsy ballerinas while Erik sat at the kitchen table watching.

“Erik, look! I can do a leap!” Marie sang, attempting a small jump but tripped and fell. Lillian laughed and helped her sister up. “Twin! We can’t do those yet, _maman_ still has to teach us, remember?”

Erik stood up. “I must bid you adieu, my princesses…it is late, and your mother will be expecting you in bed soon.”

“Okay. But when will we see you again?” Lillian asked with pleading eyes.

“Claudia will show you the path to my house; it is not far from here. You may come see me whenever you like, little ones. If your mother approves, of course,” his eyes softened on Christine. She felt herself blush again, but acted nonchalant. “But of course, it seems I couldn’t keep them from you if I tried.”

“Goodnight, Erik,” Lillian threw her arms around his neck as he kneeled down. He kissed her softly on the forehead, and touched a thumb to her chin. “Have the sweetest of dreams, _kleine prinzessin_ ,” he whispered gently. As Lillian let go of him, Marie threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly. “And me too?” she said, looking up at him eagerly. “You too, little rose,” he said with a smile, kissing her forehead lightly.

As Erik stood up, Claudia rushed to embrace him. “Thank you for coming, my dear. I should hope I will be seeing more of you now? I thought you had disappeared for a bit there,” she said, eyeing him cautiously, but playfully. “I had a bit of travel for work, but it appears I am not going anywhere for awhile, now.” He said through a smile.

“Well good! It’s good to know you’re back there in those woods. I’ll sleep more peacefully tonight!” Claudia laughed.

Erik turned toward Christine, taking in every inch of her pale beauty once more. Their eyes locked, and she felt the rush of his power wash over her. “I will see you to the door,” she said to him, and he nodded, a smile teasing about his lips.

Claudia had ushered the twins to the washroom for a bath before bed, after they had kissed and hugged Magnus numerous times. Christine walked behind Erik slowly as he made his way towards the door. Magnus nudged Christine softly on the thigh, and she bent down and kissed him on his silky head. His black nub of a tail wagged back and forth, ecstatic with his kiss from the Queen.

The kitchen was empty. Erik turned before opening the door, and suddenly he was upon her, his scent, his feel…and he brushed his lips softly upon her cheek. “Goodnight, Miss of the Night,” he murmured, “and if you are unable to sleep tonight…and feel the need to get air…I shall be out walking, with Magnus.”

“How will I know you are there?” she asked, breathlessly.

“You shall hear your song,” he replied, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the kitchen.

And with his kiss burning upon her cheek, she stood speechless as he slipped out the door and into the dark of the night. She touched a hand to her cheek where his lips had been; it was warm and flushed; a healed white scar, long and terrifying…playing upon the strings of her heart, filling her with longing…she already yearned for the balcony, for the moonlit path to show itself; to stand out where she was between both heaven and earth…and feel the pleasure of his power beneath the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback, emotions, and thoughts, please! :)


	11. Little King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE THANK YOU to all my lovely readers and my Guests who continuously review this story that I keep so close to my heart. You all are the fire that fuels my writing and passion. I apologize for the late update; I have been on vacation in Florida for the past week. Anyways, please enjoy the next piece of this story…and as always, please do leave feedback! Leave thoughts, emotions, feelings…anything! It always makes my day. 
> 
> Kleiner König – German for “little king”. 
> 
> So, without further ado…

As he shut the door of the cottage soundlessly, the night wound rampantly around him; engulfing him and his faithful shadow of a beast in deep and endless night. He made his way through the blackness with ease, following the swirled path in front of the cottage that led to a narrow dirt road. Magnus surged ahead of him now, forging their way through the thick of the night with glowing eyes. “Slow down, _kleiner König_ ,” Erik laughed, taking off into a slight jog to keep up with his beast. Magnus looked back at his master; his only friend and companion, waiting on him to close the distance between the two of them.

They walked alongside each other now, as equals. Erik sighed deeply, running a hand along Magnus’s silky black head as they strolled. He stopped, turning to take one last look at the cottage that now lay in the distance; and the light that glowed in the upstairs window, a northern star in his sky…

“Ah, Magnus…there’s _something_ about her…something I cannot put my finger on…”

Magnus looked up at Erik as they stood, two figures painted in dull darkness. He nudged him in the leg, urging him to continue the path homeward. “I know, I know,” Erik murmured, turning back toward the darkened dirt road, lit only by a sliver of crescent moon that clung desperately to pinpricks of surrounding stars.

“I know you sensed it too…sadness. Such sadness in her eyes…I wanted to ask her why, but it seemed that she…well, perhaps she did not feel comfortable…” he confessed as they walked, speaking his thoughts aloud to his partner. Magnus continued trotting alongside him, his pointed ears flattened; listening intently.

“And the girls, the little princesses…God, it seems they’ve taken a hold on my heart. Yours too, _kleiner König_?”

Magnus let out a long sigh. “That’s what I thought,” Erik replied. “I can’t say that I’ve ever felt this close to a child…well, _ever_. It seems children have never quite taken a liking to me…that is, until now…”

They rounded the bend that led into the forest, shading the light from the moon, stealing its pallid glow and plunging the pair into damp and thick darkness.

“She is…perhaps the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Beautiful…yet silenced by a melancholy song; deep and intricate pain….she is suffering. I could see it so clearly in her eyes…yet no one around her speaks of it! She hides in plain sight, Magnus…truly.”

The beast nudged him again, pushing him out of the way of a wayward tree root that surged upwards in the dirt path, hidden by the shadows of the forest. “You know I always forget that one,” Erik laughed as he stumbled slightly. “I know what you’re thinking, little king; I’m not drunk…although I do feel…strange. It’s this…this burning in my heart? God, like a ripping, a twisting of the soul… _who_ is she, truly? Who is this woman that comes from Paris? What pain could she carry around that is so scarring; how can she be so beautiful and full of life…yet speak as though ashes fall from her lips?”

Magnus whined softly. “She _must_ be of royalty…the way she holds herself, her poise…how could she be a commoner? I could not even imagine it.”

They walked in silence for awhile, engulfed by the endless torrent of the night. The trees above let in small streams of moonlight as they continued, guiding their path with slender tails of luminescence.

“And…and her _voice!_ Her voice is…well, I cannot even describe such a voice. I must hear her sing, old friend…it almost…takes hold of me, when she speaks! Draining me…God, what a fool I must have sounded…singing that song…she hardly knows me…”

Magnus grunted in response. “You’re right…she was moved, I believe…and she touched my scar, this one, on my chest…she asked me where it came from. Now that’s a secret I dare not tell…”

Magnus grunted again.

“You think me a fool, old friend? Put under the spell of a Queen?”

As the canopy of forest began to wane, a house could be seen glowing in the distance, surrounded by immense and ancient gnarls of trees. Magnus broke into a run, stretching long sinewy legs across the earthen path, scraping up clouds of clay with his paws. Erik laughed loudly, throwing his head back as he pounced into a powerful sprint; trying to catch his four legged beast in a race under the stars above.

Magnus reached the front door of the house before his counterpart, his black nub of a tail wagging manically. Erik stopped suddenly, startled, as he glimpsed a white horse settled in the stables near the side of the house. Then came a voice out of the darkness, sultry and sweet; a glaze of honey that dripped from a splintered porcelain teacup…

“ _Erik._ ”

He was still breathing heavily from his short sprint with Magnus. “Anias…? What are you doing here…so late in the night?”

A woman emerged from the darkness cloaked in a silvery pale dress; a second moon in the night. Her lips were painted scarlet, full and voluptuous, with smooth prominent cheekbones and luscious raven hair that fell in waves across her barely covered breasts. “I heard you came back,” she spoke softly. “I came to see you…”

She stepped up to him, her silhouette glowing under the light of the stars. “You didn’t think I went a day without longing for you, did you?” She parted her lips, red like the blood spilled from a calf, tracing a delicate finger on the tip of his chin. “You never told me where you were going…”

Erik sighed, looking deeply into her hazel eyes, flecked with green and sparkling with an elusive golden hue. “I was given a last minute notice by the chief architect…I had to leave as soon as possible for the project.”

Anias turned away from him, taking a couple steps further into the obscure shadows of the night. “Yes, your project…how did it turn out, for you?”

“It was a success, of course. You’ve seen my sketches.”

She turned to face him again, reaching her hand out gracefully, running it softly down his chest. “You know I’ve missed you… _deeply_.”

Erik sighed painfully. He ran a sweaty hand through his dark hair, thumbing the shaved parts above his ears. “ _Anias_ …the last time I saw you, you told me to leave.”

“I was _wrong_ , Erik…is that what you want me to say?”

“No,” he replied. “I want you to be honest with me.”

“I was always honest with you. Always. You knew the cost of everything…”

“The cost! Are you _fucking_ with me, Anias? I opened myself up to you…only for you to _reject_ me! And for what, your family? Your…your _bloodline_? As if I’m not good enough for you, is that it? And I won’t ever be! Not in _your_ eyes,” he finished, his voice a thunderous growl. Magnus watched closely, sitting patiently by the front door of the house.

“Do _not_ get angry with me, Erik! I cannot help to whom I was born! You want me to throw everything away?” she was screaming, now…her eyes a blaze of bronze and emerald, sharp jewels that glistened fiercely with pain, with anger…

“Do not tell _me_ how to feel! Do not even speak those words to me, woman! You’ve put me through absolute _hell_!” He was screaming back at her. His throat was raw with the sound of it; the power of poison, the feel of it stinging, the pleasure of power…

“ _Hell_? Hell, is that what you’d call it? You told me you _loved_ me, you bastard!” her eyes were ablaze, a fire he could feel against his face; an old scab begging to be scratched at, picked at, torn away from the flesh…

Erik threw his hands in the air. “And then what? You rejected me, for fuck’s sake! Right before I had to leave! You knew I was in the palm of your _fucking_ hand!”

Anias stared at him. “What, so I said it… _so what_! Would that have changed anything?”

He rubbed his hand across his forehead, beaded with sweat. “You told me you’d never marry me.”

“And I spoke honestly.”

He turned away from her gaze. “Why are you even here? Why do you feel the need to torture me so…?”

“I don’t want to hurt you! I _love_ you!”

“You don’t _love_ me! You love my touch, my taste…you love my _power_. You don’t love my imperfections, my flaws…you said it yourself.”

She moved closer to him in the darkness, gripping the front of his shirt. “I need you.”

He shoved her hands away. “No.”

She moved closer to him, grabbing his wrist, pushing her body into his heaving chest. “Erik…I _need_ you.”

“No.” He pulled away again, aggressively this time. He gritted his teeth, a snarl; a beast in the darkness. “You’ve ripped me apart…over and over.”

“Let me fix it, please… _please_! _Forgive_ me…I’ve never needed you more than I need you now.”

“You don’t need me.”

“Erik… _please_. Please. I came here in the dead of night to find you. I was looking for you at the marketplace…I did not see your face in the crowd…”

“I did not want to be seen, by you.”

“But hide yourself from me…? Why? I have let you inside of me, I have loved you…trusted you…”

“ _Lies_!” He snarled at her. “ _Fucking_ lies, Anias. You told me you’d never marry me. Now cut me free from your _God-forsaken_ binds!”

“No one has bound you, you _impossible_ man!”

“Impossible? I’m impossible, the man who proposed to you, only to have you laugh in my face? Asking me what your family might think? _This_ , you call impossible? Ridiculous,” he growled, pacing in the darkness, flinging the sweat from his brow. Magnus paced alongside the path to the house, watching his master intently.

Anias crossed her arms, her hair a halo of pitch black around her perfectly crafted features.

“So you do not love me, then?”

He sighed, and was silent. He stared out into the forest, shoving a hand through his hair roughly. His silken shirt dripped with sweat; spilling droplets like rain down into the parched earth.

“Love,” he spat. “You know nothing of love.”

“ _Look at me!”_ she cried, grabbing his wrists and whirling him around. “Look at me and tell me you do not love me!”

He glared at her. “Do not make this about you. You told me what you wanted. I had to leave knowing you thought me a fool! A low born man with a burned face, that’s what you think of me, truly…and a fool I was, for trusting you… _loving_ you,” he spit the words at her like poison.

She released her grip on his wrists, her arms falling limply to her sides. “I never said any of that! None of it! You are twisting my words…you are _afraid_ of love…you always have been!”

“Afraid of love? Yet I loved you with the entirety of my _fucking_ being? It is you, who is afraid of love. No…afraid to love a man that does not fit in with your _perfect_ little world!”

“Erik, I _need_ you! When you left I felt empty. I need you, please…let my words dissipate…hold me like you held me before…” her voice trailed into a whisper now, desperate and filled with longing. “Please…”

“Hold you, and then what? Your words will just vanish from my mind? _No_.”

“I take it all back!” she screamed, tears running down her icy skin. “I take it back, all of it! I do not care. I miss your touch, your voice in my ear…I miss the feeling of you inside of me…loving me, kissing me…please…”

“God! You torture me!” Erik roared, his eyes wide and animalistic, his teeth bared, clenched…Magnus stood up, on edge…staring at his master, waiting for a command, any command…

“You know I never meant to hurt you. Never! All those words I said… _I hate them_. I want them to disappear! I love you…so much. Please…hold me tonight…stroke my hair, be with me tonight…my soul has been longing for you…for your voice, to sing me to sleep…Erik…”

“Fuck,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “Why did you have to come back? Why do you keep putting me through this pain?”

She threw her arms around his neck then, enveloping him into a deep kiss. She moaned into his kiss, breathing in his scent, feeling the veins coursing through his neck with her fingertips; the shuddering of his heart within his chest dripping with sweat; the smooth blood of the earth, dribbling…crying. He paused against her kiss, but returned it, slowly. He touched her delicate back softly, lacing his fingers into the small curves of her back, feeling the smooth skin of her hips, her waist…she was a river, and he had plunged his head into freezing water, into a territory that was desolate, bleak, where only vines of pain grew. His mind screamed against the motions of his hands, begging him to stop…yet her taste was like a viper’s tongue, sweet as a lilac, but stinging…a venomous bite to his throat…

Anias broke their kiss gently, staring deeply into his eyes. “Take me,” she whispered.

He paused, tasting her sweet water on his lips…his breathing slowed, and he locked eyes with Magnus then; his beast who stood at the ready, with wise black eyes that screamed above the pounding of his own heart… _I have seen how she broke you. Do not let her inside…I have healed up the parts of you that she ripped open…she still has blood on her fingertips…can’t you see, master? Friend, old friend…are you blind to the pain she has caused your gentle heart…?_

Erik ran a calloused hand through his hair again, pushing back the pieces that had fallen out of place. “Anias, _leave me_.”

She stared at him, shocked by his words that sliced her skin; that tightened the noose around her neck…

“You would reject me, now?” she laughed bitterly. “Of course I should have known you would take your _sweet_ revenge on me…you’re full of _anger_ and _hatred!_ You impossible, selfish man!”

Magnus whined softly from where he stood. _She is deceiving you…_

“For once you are right. I _do_ hate you!” he laughed wickedly. “You _vile_ woman! And you deserve every ounce of hate that I have…oh, I have never hated anyone more! Not even my _own mother_!”

She slapped him across the face. “You _sicken_ me,” she replied icily, whirling her silvery skirts as she turned toward the stables. “How dare you say those words to me. _How dare you!_ ” she screamed back at him, her eyes a crazed whirlwind of anguish and revulsion; an exploding star, burning inside the confines of the atmosphere…

“ _Leave me_ , you sick woman… _you’re a_ _disease, an infectious and poisonous bite to my throat…a Delilah!_ Touching me with those fingers that _betray_ …you know _nothing_ of love! _Nothing!_ ” He roared, his face still stinging from the harshness of her blow.

As she mounted her white horse, she turned her face slightly, and he could see tears falling down her pale sculpted face; running wildly down like his anger, his hate, the deep sorrow of his soul…flowing and blending with the night that seemed hollow and endless.

She fled into the darkness on her steed, disappearing into the deep of the woods, faster than a vein of lightning shattering the sky in the blackest storm. When her form had vanished from his sight, he fell to his knees, covering his face with his hands. Tears began to flow then, falling freely, wetting his cheeks, dripping down his lips…He sobbed uncontrollably, hiding his face from no one… his sadness was an ache, a wound not yet healed, and the winds whispered alongside his pain, touching his face, his hair…his back that was laced with scars and sweat; ancient blood that had long since been dried, covered, and hidden away.

He knelt and wept there, in the damp earth, breathing raggedly. He felt a soft muzzle rest on his knee; Magnus had placed his head there gently, staring up at his master with pain in the dark of his eyes. Erik pulled his hands down slowly, a release; his face drenched in tears, his lips parted with shuddering breaths. He touched Magnus gently on the side of his muzzle, stroking the beast with two fingers. “And you always come to collect the pieces of me, little king,” he whispered; and the dog moved closer to him, shielding Erik’s body with his own, as if to protect him from a world that did not love, that did not understand; that hated, that manipulated…and his warmth filled Erik, and he held the beast around the neck, sobbing into the dark of his fur…two figures blending into one, a smeared charcoal painting, lit only by the stars that cried from above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feelings, emotions, and feedback please :) Let me know what you’re thinking!


	12. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge THANK YOU again to all my lovely readers and Guests out there. As I always say, please do leave a review…let me know your thoughts! I use the song “Not While I’m Around” by Barbara Streisand within this chapter again, but the rest of the lyrics are all my own. With that being said…enjoy the next chapter of my story. And please leave comments :) Each and every one makes my day, truly.

_It has never been like this, until now...When you left, I felt your scent leave my atmosphere; hiding itself away from me as I stood standing, empty handed…and I heard the thunderous tremor of the door that closed…separating you and I. You would never know that I longed to fling it open, that I longed to run after you, your form that had disappeared into the dark of the night… you who had vanished so fluently into the blackened void. Why…? Why did you leave my cheek burning with a kiss from those lips, why did you tell me you would be out, walking in the midst of the forest? Why did you let me hear you, let me feel you, over and over…over and over? As if God himself appeared to me, running his fingers across the lids of my eyes, whispering to me, asking me, begging me to finally open them, to truly begin to see…for I’ve been blind, I’ve lost my own face…gone are the days where I knew the woman in the mirror, the woman who stared back at me._

_Tears ripple down now, drops of rain smearing the edges of my face. They sting, they inflict pain, they leave me wide open, vulnerable to your gaze…. How can you see my pain? Do you see the parts of me where the threads have fallen away, unraveling fast, piling into soft pools of blood? Pools of flesh that lay barren, empty…screaming out to you, who can see…you who sees the spirit, not the skin, or the surface…you who gazes into my very soul?_

_And all I can see, all I can feel is the tingle of your eyes, the rough and the gentle bleeding, blending into my river. The soft motion of your hands, your fingers…pulling me, pushing me, freeing me… am I still bound? Perhaps my binds have changed; for now, they are of night, not tight upon the wrists, but thick and smooth, smearing my flesh, a smudge in my vanity mirror…_

_If I evade thoughts of you, if I push you out of my mind…can I still drink from your river? Can I still suckle the words from your lips, can I still taste your skin in my mind; the scars and pink tissues, the pale marks that leave stains upon the tips of my fingers?_

_Can I? And what man is capable…truly, who can say?_

The twins burst out from the washroom, a noisy circus of giggles that halted Christine’s thoughts yet again. The thoughts lingered for a moment; ruminating, swelling within her like an infection…but slowly slipped away into the recesses of her mind; the shutting of a distant door. She cast her eyes on her two daughters, with faces that shined like twin stars that lingered upon a pink and grey sky line.

“ _Maman_ , I’m not tired,” Marie whined, burying her face in the front of her mother’s turquoise dress; an ocean of teal and blue that Marie clung to with desperate fingers, gripping the silk folds with tiny hands.

Christine smiled down at her, running a hand through her tousled wet curls, smelling of lilac soap from her bath. “Me neither!” shrieked Lillian, who was twirling around in the dim light of the kitchen, the white nightgown swirling around her delicate form.

“I’m too excited! I want to dance, to sing! I want to go out and see the stars again…and I want Erik to come back! He left too soon,” she finished grumpily, just as Claudia came striding out of the washroom. “Now girls,” she said sternly, “It is almost midnight. Erik had to go back to his house; he must get rest, and the same goes for the both of you! We have had _quite_ a long and eventful day.” Claudia stood in her infamous poise, with both hands placed carefully and powerfully on her hips. “Now say goodnight to your dear mother, there will be plenty of time for adventures tomorrow!”

The twins threw themselves into their mother’s arms, dampening the front of her gown with their curls. Lillian wrapped her arms around her mothers’ neck tightly, and whispered softly into her ear; a whisper so gentle and meek that it made Christine want to weep. “ _Maman_ , I never want to leave this place. Not _ever_.”

“Don’t fret, my love,” she murmured, kissing Lillian’s forehead; a split of pallid white and deep purple. “We shall live here as long as we please.”

Lillian’s face broke into a wide toothy grin. “The princesses and the Queen…together…forever!”

“Forever!” Marie echoed, kissing her mother’s delicate white hand. _“Nothing’s gonna harm us, not while you’re around!”_

 _“Demons will charm you with a smile!”_ Lillian sang, and Marie echoed her, twirling in clumsy circles; two white angels spinning in a dimly lit room. “ _For awhile, but in time…”_

Christine parted her lips softly, closing her eyes as she sang, “ _Nothing’s gonna harm you…not while I’m…around…”_

“Alright, my sweets,” Claudia said through a smile. “It is time for sleeping; for dreaming!” She bent down to the twins, as if to whisper to them the secret of life itself. “And dreams, my little doves…dreams are where we truly live.”

The twins gasped, in awe of this newfound and eternally heightened secret. “I’m going to dream that Erik is my _Papa_ ,” Lillian said quietly. Christine’s heart screamed when she heard the words uttered from her daughters’ lips; her heart quivered, crying silently as those fateful words echoed within the chasm of her mind.

Claudia, clearly taken aback by Lillian’s wish, cleared her throat. “Well, it is quite late, and you two need rest. Come now, to bed with the both of you!”

The twins followed Claudia out of the kitchen, giggling and dancing the entire way to their bedroom. Christine sat frozen, stung with the whip of Lillian’s soft and innocent wish, bleeding with the talons that called her by name; a howling in the deep of the night, reflecting those hollowed eyes that stared back at her in the vanity mirror…

_The moonlit path awaits you…go up and see, dear spirit…go up and see…_

Claudia came back from settling the twins into bed, and Christine stood up quickly upon her entrance to the kitchen. “I…I am spent, dear Claudia,” she replied hastily. Claudia raised her eyebrows, but nodded. “Yes dear, it seems we’ve had _quite_ a chaotic day in _Lourmarin_ …I am sure you are needing your rest. I shall see you tomorrow morning, my sweet girl.” She kissed Christine on the forehead as a mother might do before bed, a ritual of love, a sweet and binding kiss…a mark that might fade from Christine’s skin, washed away by bathwater and droplets of rain; but stayed branded on her heart, the trace of a mothers’ kiss, a mothers’ care…invigorating her spirit from the harshness of the deep, where her heart stayed hidden…caged, clipped, and half-shattered…

Christine ascended the stairs to the upstairs bedroom, her heart throbbing in her chest…rushing blood through the veins in her hands, bringing life out of imminent death… _When will I hear it, his voice in the darkness?_ Her thoughts were a haphazard rush of water; piles of blood that passed down a river, intricately mixing with salts and minerals of the earth…

She spilled into the darkness of the bedroom, standing frozen in the doorway. For the moonlit path had already revealed itself, and the silvery curtains whispered with the wind, as if to say, _I have been waiting for you, all this time…here I am! Walk upon my surface, my open door…feel the soft touch of the sky beneath your feet, sweet Queen…walk through the air, for then, truly you shall live!_

She did not bother to wash up or to change; her hair was wild, a storm around her face from the warmth of the summer breeze, from the kisses of the garden wind…she reached up and touched her cheek again, where his lips had brushed the skin ever so softly, burning her, pleasing her…pulling her back from the ledge that called her by name…

The room was a cavernous dark hole, a void that would have shrouded Christine’s mind if not for the open doors of the balcony. The moonlit path surged across the floor, soft and silvery like the gates of heaven, shining white light in a straight and narrow path across the floor, beckoning her feet to take their place in its delicate iridescent glow…she stepped across the floor, her heart shuddering in its depths, screaming out in the darkness, lost in the past…lost in the confines of her own room…

She reached the balcony and placed her hands on the rails, gripping them tightly… she waited for the sound that her soul yearned for; yet, almost wished would stay silent…for if he did not show his face, if he stayed hidden…then she could hide for just a bit longer behind the mask she had fabricated; behind the lies that twisted her stomach like the hot bite of a stovetop, burning the flesh, the skin…but never the darkness that crawled underneath…

She waited there, atop her tower over the forest for what seemed like an eternity. The seconds dripped by like a cut, bleeding her dry…killing her, feeding the beast that lived inside the mirror…beckoning to her, sneering at her…ripping at her clothes, destroying her…yet she remained untouched on the outside, a perfect doll in a fitted corset, playing a part back at the Opera Populaire…the _silent_ role…the one where she died to scream out, but the script held no words for her to utter, to speak aloud…

And suddenly, a voice shattered the silence, piercing the woods with a thunderous bellow; the voice her soul had been waiting for…as his words had been whispered, a promise… _and he kept this promise…he is there, in the darkness, in the forest…just as he said he would be._

His voice rang out in the darkness, louder than the night before…clearer than the stars that watched from above…

_“Take this pain away! Take it from me, somehow…_

_To see her like this, it rips me so deep…_

_To see her like this, a part of me weeps!_

_I am silent, yet she screams aloud…”_

Before she could even think to hold back; before the darkness within her could cut her at the throat; bind her with silken sheets at the neck…she closed her eyes and parted her lips, taking a deep and full breath…and there, atop her _axis mundi,_ between heaven and earth, she sang for the first time; for him, this man…out into the dark of the forest, to the tops of the trees that drank in her voice anxiously…and he who lay hidden down below, standing tearstained and breathless, listened as her voice reached his shadow through the brush and the trees…

_“She sees what she’s become,_

_she sees, and is afraid…_

_A mother, who can say?_

_Who can take away this pain?_

_What can heal a soul that_

_Has shattered…who can heal betrayal?_

_What can she do, she is powerless!_

_Who is capable? And who…_

_Can say?_

_What man can understand?_

_What man can possibly see?_

_The beast that curls inside of me…_

_A mother, a mask, a darkened form…_

_She is not I, I am not she…_

_I am something else, completely_

_And you, who listens in the dark,_

_You, who listens, who made your mark_

_A mother, who can say? And you…_

_Who listens intently, you_

_Who walks the path…_

_Who are you, truly?_

_Show yourself to me…_

_Show so I, can see…_

_This I ask…no! I plead…_

_Take my mask from me…”_

The words died from her lips, and the trees rustled, an applause that thundered and swept across the land. Suddenly, he was there, at the foot of her balcony; his form illuminated by the stars, by the breath of the moon…Christine gasped aloud, clapping a hand to her lips, as she saw he was gazing up at her with piercing eyes; and the stars glimmered against track marks of tears that had dried on his face…

“Erik,” she breathed, releasing her hand from her mouth. “Erik…you are upset.”

He was silent. He continued to stare up at her from the place where he stood, and Magnus sat beside him with eyes that gleamed in the dark like fireflies.

“Erik,” she repeated. “Please say something. Was it my song? If it was…too much, I _do_ apologize…I came up here wanting to sing for you…I figured I, well…owed you a song, since you sang so beautifully for me…” her voice trailed off, uncertain and uncomfortable by his pained and bloodshot eyes.

“Come down,” he called out hoarsely, and held out his arms. She shook her head, confused by his words. “Erik, it is late…and I should…”

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, come down.”

Christine sighed. “Alright, give me a moment, I will have to find my way to the downstairs door…”

“No,” he said softly. “Jump. I shall catch you.”

Her heart surged inside of her chest. “Erik…this is ridiculous, I…well, I will just take the stairs and…”

A smile played at his lips, then…and she found herself returning his smile softly; the curve of it upon her lips sent a quiver down the wake of her spine. “You want to catch me, is that it? You want to show me that indeed, you are a knight!” she countered, watching him as he smiled grandly; the corners of his mouth dimpled, and a glimpse of his teeth flashed beneath the silver of moon.

“Yes,” he smirked, crossing his arms. “I _know_ you don’t believe me.”

“Well, I do believe you! But say that you do not catch me, great knight? Then what?”

“A knight never misses…and a knight always honors the Queen, especially when she is in peril atop her tower.”

“Peril!” Christine exclaimed. “Oh, and what is this peril you speak of?”

“You are afraid to jump, Miss of the Night.”

“Afraid, am I?” she climbed up onto the railing, steadying herself against one of the beige stone posts. “It is a long drop, _Monsieur_ Dietrich…if you should miss…”

“I never miss.”

He held out his arms once more; she could see his sleeves had been rolled up, and the scars upon his forearms shimmered, lacing his skin in complex patterns, a constellation of stars upon his flesh.

Christine closed her eyes. For the first time in a long while, she did not hesitate, she did not think, or ruminate; she felt no fear…just the simplicity of the wind coursing within her veins…and she stepped off the balcony; falling free and fast through the dense air of the night.

She landed in the coiled muscles of his arms, and almost immediately she grasped him around his neck to steady herself, and slowly fluttered her eyes open. She met his gaze with a soft accidental brush of their noses; and his eyes were ablaze with _something_ , and his lips were pulled back into a smile. He set her delicately onto her feet, and she let her arm trail off gracefully from around his neck. “You gripped me quite tightly,” he murmured to her playfully.

“You…you caught me,” she said to him, breathless from the jump; speechless against his power; for with only a few words had coaxed her into his arms from atop her tower, seemingly from the edge of the world.

“Now do you believe me?” he laughed, running a hand through his hair that was slick with sweat. She stared at him, unsure of what to say, uncertain of how to feel…and suddenly, she began to laugh. Her laughter burst forth, surging like the blood through her veins, pumping life into her heart; a rhythmic intensity that hummed against her skin.

“Yes! I believe you!” she exclaimed, laughing.

“Good. Then I want to show you something.”

And she did not hesitate as he took her hand. His hand was large and calloused, and as it interlocked with her small and delicate fingers, he bowed his head, brushing those lips that stung against her knuckles. “Come,” he said softly, a mischievous gleam glistening in the blue of his eyes.

And she followed him into the dark of the forest, without seeing, without fear. She had jumped into his ocean, from the top of her tower, from the edge of the world, she had jumped without fear…and he had caught her.

And the night was a bottomless void around her, yet it did not howl her name…the voices inside were somehow silenced, as if the jump had shattered the demons, had sent them screaming into different directions, just as the boys in the market had run…

And it was _he_ who had sent them running. He, who had broken through the crowd. He, who had seen…he who had held her, for a moment…he who had brushed her nose with his own, he whose arms were laced with old blood and scars.

This strange knight, this man who had pulled her off the edge, into herself, out of herself…

And the moon smiled from above, and the stars danced in the deep of the sky…and for a moment, she could almost hear God whispering in the wind, touching her face, her hair; her soft heart that pounded into a symphony, blending in with the blood of the earth.

They walked along in complete darkness for what seemed like hours. The silence with him was soothing; for she could only hear the heavy sounds of his breathing, and the soft pitter patter of Magnus’s paws upon the earthen path.

“You are upset,” she said softly into the silence as they walked. She felt his hand tighten, and heard him sigh raggedly. “I can see it in your eyes…you’ve been crying,” she said gently, wishing she could see his face in the dark.

“I am,” he replied softly, in almost a whisper.

“Why?”

He sighed again. She squeezed his hand then, desperately wanting him to understand that she would listen to whatever it was that pained his heart. He seemed to understand, as he returned the squeeze, gently.

“A woman I once loved was waiting for me at my house. She…confronted me, I suppose you could say.”

“Well…what did she say?” she could not help but feel a prickle of jealousy…of envy, for this woman he had _loved_ …what must it feel like to be loved by him?

He sighed again. “It is difficult to explain, but I…I proposed to her, before I left for an architecture project. I was gone for quite some time.”

“So, you’re an architect? Hmm,” she tugged at his hand playfully. “So you create structures, and buildings?”

“So much more than that,” he replied. “It is an art, architecture…built with precision, perfection…like composing a piece of music, perhaps.”

“That is…very lovely,” she responded softly. “It is fitting for you, architecture…quite prestigious too, I might add.”

He laughed. “You think me prestigious, Christine?”

She shivered when he spoke her name aloud. Had it been that long since he had uttered it? Had she been dying to hear his lips form her birthright, the name that her father had given her?

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“My…well, this woman…she did not think so. That is precisely why she rejected my proposal.”

“Why is it that she rejected it? If I can ask…”

“She comes from royalty, and holds an esteemed title. She is a Queen of magnificence, of trickery; a temptress…she fooled me with her beauty, and empty words claiming of love…and a fool I was,” he muttered.

Christine was silent. They continued walking, yet suddenly up ahead, she could see an opening in the thick of the forest. “We are almost there,” Erik said softly.

They entered the opening at the edge of the forest, and as the light from the moon fell across their faces, Erik gently let go of her hand. He walked ahead of her into a clearing; a meadow…so vast and expansive, Christine could not see where it began, and where it ended. She gasped at the raw beauty of it; lit brightly by thousands of stars that were scattered; it was a field of purple flowers, a meadow out of a child’s distant dream.

Magnus galloped forward into the flowers, bounding up and down the rows of lilacs, stretching his long and powerful legs. Erik walked further into the pasture and sat down, looking up into the expanse of stars above.

Christine followed him quickly and sat down beside him, watching Magnus romp through the meadow. “He loves it,” she said softly, smiling at the beasts’ excitement, at his unadulterated freedom. “Yes, he does,” Erik answered, his eyes lost in the sky above.

“Erik?” Christine asked hesitantly. He turned and looked at her deeply, as he had in the garden…but she saw pain beneath the green and blue that washed together like Claudia’s painting hanging in her room.

She touched him gently on his left forearm that was bare; it was roped with veins and muscle, but bore a multitude of thick scars; some pink, some white…like tiny lightning bolts intersecting during a storm. “You are hurting,” she whispered. “And…I am so sorry. That woman…she…she did not truly see you.”

He stared back at her, intensely. “I know,” he replied softly, parting his lips. “Even though I was good enough for her father…I was never enough for her.”

“Then she never deserved the love that you gave.”

“No,” he whispered. “Sometimes I fear that…no one will.”

“No one will, what? Love you?” she asked, her heart throbbing inside of her chest.

He continued to stare at her. “Do you ever feel this way?”

The question sliced her skin, a knife to her throat. “Yes,” she finally whispered, as a tear ran down her cheek. “I have felt like that for many years.”

He broke her gaze, and traced a finger in the dirt between them. “Have you loved as well?”

“Yes,” she whispered again, as more tears began to ripple down her cheeks. “I have, Erik. So very badly. And that’s all I can say. Please,” her voice broke then, and she silently began to sob.

“Look at me,” he spoke gently, placing a thumb on her chin. She opened her eyes, and stared at him through the pain that had broken loose; through the chains that had made themselves known.

“Whoever harmed you…whoever he is…he must have missed the beauty within your spirit, your soul…in fact, he must have been blind…for I see it plainly, even in the darkness.”

Christine forced a smile through her tears. “I felt as though I were playing a role. A role in which…I could not continue to play.”

He sighed deeply. “Then you must let this role of yours dissipate, you must release it…otherwise it will hold power over you.”

“It still does,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said gently. “I can see it in your eyes, Christine.”

“What am I to do?” she stood up, gathering the folds of her dress. “What am I to say? Who can take this pain away…”

 _“I am bound! I am branded, I am weeping…”_ Erik sang softly. _“And there’s nothing I can do…nothing I can say! To take her pain…away…”_

 _“A knight, in a purple field,”_ Christine sang, closing her eyes. _“A knight, without a shield. And yet, he brandishes a sword…he sweeps the world away,_

_he hunts by night, and by day…longing for someone to say…”_

_“Is it too late to be loved?”_ He bellowed, pain striking between the spaces of each breath.

_“Is it too late for him, this purple flowered knight?_

_He has no shield, he is defenseless to this world._

_And yet she comes, she crashes down_

_With all her madness, all her might!_

_And she stares at me, waiting, on the windowsill…_

_And I answer, I always will…_

_To her, would it be enough? Or would it be less_

_Even still…_

_He is afraid, he’s a child in waiting._

_Crying softly, bleeding slowly…_

_And she bleeds with him, she strikes at him,_

_And she stares as if she knows…_

_She sees what he thinks, where his mind goes…_

_And he waits, upon the windowsill_

_For her crashes, soft and still_

_He waits for her, on the edge of the dark…_

_To see her face, her daughters’ mark._

_Oh, has my life been opened? Or have I been_

_Fooled again…No! She listens, softly, in the still_

_For I, in the dark, in the midst of this pain_

_I have been seen, upon_

_The windowsill.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, emotions, and any feedback would be greatly appreciated :) Let me know what you’re feeling/thinking!


	13. Endless Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late update. Thank you to my all of AMAZING readers and my lovely Guests who continue to leave reviews. As always, please do leave a review; thoughts, feelings, and feedback are very much appreciated.

There was nothing but sky. Nothing but dark wisps of emotion that flowed effortlessly through the air, nothing but the labored breathing of him next to her. His song had long since faded into the pinnacle of stars above, and they had sat silently then, staring out into the purple field. A word might shatter the thin streak of clouds, one word might break the edge that had reared within Christine’s throbbing spirit. She breathed heavily, the words from his lips replaying in her mind, and the smooth complexity of his tenor ringing in her ears, endlessly…he had scarred her, with such a song. Burned her lips, her wrists, the soft underside of her delicate breasts…heaving with the scent of lilac that God had strung over the blank and vacant darkness.

She turned toward him to where he now sat in the dirt, raking her eyes over his hunched and coiled form. It was so powerfully silhouetted against the stars; she could see every muscle fiber that lurched through his sweat soaked shirt, tensing and heaving with every breath that he took…lips parted, running a hand through his hair, again…pushing damp and dark pieces back into their perfectly slicked positions.

“Where did you learn to sing like that?” the words escaped her throat; she could not hold them back, she could not put a bit into their tiny mouths and silence them…she had to speak, she had to break the silence of the night…of _his_ night…

He broke his distant gaze from the field, and rested his eyes upon her. They glowed with such intensity, such fire that it seared her face, her arms, her chest; scorching each breath that she squeezed out of her lungs…gasping for air, for life…

“When I was young…my father was away, much of the time,” he began softly. As he spoke, he absentmindedly traced a finger in the dirt between them again. “He did not know of the things my mother did. And one day, he came home from one of his many travels early… _just_ early enough to catch her whipping me, tied to a tree.”

Christine was silent. Her heart wept for him, for young Erik, bound and gagged, tears leaking from his eyes as he cried out to no one…she shuddered at the vivid picture that he painted. All she could do was silently stare at him, to fall deeper and deeper into the ocean of his eyes, feeling the tangle of seaweed and the brush of coral beneath her feet…

“He ran out into the yard…he screamed my name. My full name. Never have I heard such terror in his voice, never have I heard him scream at her like that…and…he untied me, undid the binds that had cut into my wrists so many times…and he slapped her. I remember the noise quite distinctly, like the crack of the whip, perhaps…”

Suddenly, Magnus appeared out of the depths of the field, trotting through the purple brush, a great beast of the night. He scampered up to Erik’s form and laid down, resting his large head in his masters’ lap. The beast let out a sigh, staring up at Erik with sensitive eyes; there was deep love between them. The timid and loving act of this animal; to hear the pain in his voice and come running to his comfort brought tears to Christine’s eyes. She quickly brushed them away, and they were flung into the dirt, drying with the heat of the breeze.

Erik smiled down at Magnus, stroking his long black muzzle with a large hand. “Ah, little king,” he murmured; a voice that a father might soothe a frightened son with. “He has heard this story before; he knows my tone.”

“What happened, then? When he found you?” she whispered shyly, afraid to even utter the words, yet they burst forth, unraveling the binds in her throat, over and over, over and over…

Erik sighed deeply. “He took me away from that house, away from her. He was speaking so fast, and I was so weak, I could barely listen…he was pulling me by the arm, screaming in German…of course, I went stumbling along after him, half blinded by the pain in my back.”

Magnus whined. “Shhh,” Erik whispered to him, stroking his pointed ears that lay flattened against the silk of his head. “I am not there, anymore, little king…You see, he took me away. Thrust me into his carriage, and away we went…I was in and out of it, but I remember him touching my forehead, cursing my mother’s name…whispering to me that she would pay for what she had done. That if he had known, he never would have left…”

“He loved you,” Christine whispered. “He loved you so much.”

“He loves me,” Erik corrected her, a smile curving upon his full lips. “He lives, Christine.”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to assume…”

“You are forgiven,” he smirked at her, flashing his teeth at her in the dark. Her heart jumped at the gesture, at the strange allure of his full smile…did he know the power it held over her, now?

“He took me to the city, where we lived together. As he worked, I kept up the house, and did odd jobs, here and there…and he would always sing to me, when I asked. He was never trained, but his voice was…simply, astounding.”

“It seems he has passed that onto you,” she said softly, staring into his eyes deeply from where she sat. He smiled again, so wide that his cheeks dimpled. “It seems you also possess such a gift,” he answered, his voice smooth like the grey silk of his shirt, soaked with sweat that smelled of woods and endless night.

She blushed, and was grateful then for the darkness that covered them. “Well, I am not as good as I once was…I stopped singing, years ago…except for the twins, when they would ask…”

“Just like my father and I.”

“Perhaps…but Erik, you did not tell me how you learned to sing, as you do…it is quite obvious you are classically trained.”

He chuckled. “You have discovered my secret, my Miss of the Night. Yes, my father urged me to study at a Conservatory, which cost a great deal of my time…and it was there, precisely, where I learned to harness my voice, I suppose you could say.”

“Well…I could have guessed that,” Christine replied, trying to hide her playful smile. “I knew you were trained from the moment I heard you sing. So tell me, _Monsieur_ of Germany’s great Conservatory, why did you take up architecture?”

“Christine! Must you know all of my secrets in one night?” he laughed, a deep and rough bellow that echoed out across the silence of the field.

She folded her arms, and stood up. “Well you seek to know mine, do you not?” she had wished the words back, almost instantly. _You have too many secrets that he cannot know…_

He stood up, pulled by her power, brushing the dirt from his breeches. Magnus folded himself into a poised and perfected sitting position beside his master. Erik stared at her then, with those blue-green eyes that ripped at her heart, unblinking, seeing into her depths…she broke his gaze, suddenly. “I…I should get back,” she said softly, adjusting the tresses of her dress nervously. “It must be very late.”

He sighed. “You are right…I should take you back now. But I want you to know…this field, it is yours; a secret place where you can sing, and only the sky will hear you. I come here often, when I am feeling…restless.”

She looked up at him, blushing again. “Thank you,” she managed to stammer, averting from his gaze once more. “Erik, I am tired…will you show me the way back?”

He nodded, holding out his hand for her. She stared down at its calloused surface, at the veins that spiraled through the underside of his forearm. She tentatively slipped her hand into his, and their fingers slowly intertwined.

He led her out of the field, out of the beauty that beckoned, that screamed out her name. _Little dove, little dove! Come sing in my depths, let the earth shatter with your cries! Little dove, sweet dove…spread your wings so that you may finally fly! Up and away, through the clouds and beyond…leave the world speechless, leave this world and be gone!_

They were shrouded in darkness once more, with Magnus trotting at their heels. The trees formed a black tunnel above, and if not for Erik’s soft hold on her hand, she felt she would be utterly lost in the black curtain that had seemingly been pulled across her eyes; the deepest dark of the witching hour.

Finally the thick of the trees began to wane, and up ahead she saw the shape of the cottage. The moon poured light across the shimmering beige stone of the house, causing its surface to glimmer; a structure made of stars. Christine could see his form clearly now; the rippling muscles in his back; the sweat beads that gathered on the hairs of his neck…she shivered at the thought of reaching out, of running a hand down the smooth of his spine…but she did not dare to, fearing his reaction, fearing that he might brush his lips not upon her cheek, but upon the soft of her lips instead…yet she longed for his touch, even still…

They reached the foot of the balcony. Erik released her hand, and turned toward her then, gazing gently into her eyes. “Do you mind if I lift you up?”

“What? Lift me up… _there_?” she asked, startled by the nonchalance in his tone. She glanced up at the balcony, at the rails that seemed so high above them. “I…I can use the back door, Erik, really…”

He crossed his arms, standing powerfully over her, drinking in her scent. “A knight returns the lady how he retrieved her.”

“Oh, my goodness, Erik, really! What, do you expect to throw me up there?”

“I would never throw you, why would you assume that?” he chuckled gently. “No, I will simply lift you. Do you trust me, Miss of the Night?”

“Yes, of course I do, but…I find this, preposterous!” she replied, placing her hands on her hips. “Erik, absolutely not! I was a dancer, yes, but I am no…acrobat!”

He laughed again. “I shall not force you to do something you are afraid to do.”

“Afraid? I am not afraid, _Monsieur_ Dietrich! I am simply being…realistic.”

“You are afraid,” he drawled, a smile curving upon his lips. “Just take the downstairs door, leave your knight to mourn in the dark, that he did not complete his… _mission_.”

“Oh, you are _impossible_! Fine. What would you have me do?”

“Just trust me, that is all.”

And with one swift movement, he grabbed her by the waist; a movement that sent her heart soaring out of its battered cage, up through the trees and into the sky…he thrust her into the air, and for a moment she was surging into the heavens; she had grown wings, great golden wings, and she felt feathers around her, God’s hand upon her…and all she saw was the stars. She reached out her arms then, grasping the rail of the balcony, catching a foot in between the smooth painted rungs. Breathless, she looked down at Erik who stood in the gleam of the moonlight, smiling, showing his teeth to her once more.

Christine swung her legs over the rail, her head dizzy with the rush of adrenaline and the vivid feel of wind in her blood. She whirled herself around, staring down at this _man_ , this incredulous man who stood with eyes luminous like twin jewels of sapphire.

“I…I said no acrobatics,” she called down to him once her breathing had slowed. She heard his distant chuckle, and his voice then, smooth and soft as the kiss of moonlight upon her skin.

“Goodnight, my _Fräulein der Nacht._ ”And then he was gone, swallowed up by the dense charcoal of the forest.

Christine stared out into the dark, trying to make out his form, to see any part of him…but he was gone. Her heart broke, just the same as when he had left earlier in the night, and her mind replayed the soft touch of his calloused hand, over and over, _over and over…_

She softly padded back through the moonlit door and into the shadows of the bedroom. Christine was overcome with sudden exhaustion then, and she tore off her dress, leaving it in a pool of ocean upon the floor. She fell into the bed, pulling the covers around her, hearing his lustrous voice in her head, talking of his father, being tied to a tree…and she heard his cries, in her mind…and she felt tears wet the pillow, bleeding her dry.

She awoke abruptly in the light of the morning, in a daze of what had transpired just hours before. She did not feel worn: although she barely had slept, and the pillow was damp with her tears. _Erik…_

Something out of the room caught her eye, something seemingly out of place in its perfectly arranged interior. A letter had been slid under the door, and there it waited, sitting in the streams of sunlight from the double doors of the balcony. Christine climbed out of bed, her head swimming still with the gleam of the moon, with aching…his touch, his binding touch…could it be from _him?_

She walked carefully across the floor, dressed only in delicate undergarments…yet, her heart stopped as she saw the blood red of the wax seal dried upon the parchment. _The De Chagny seal._ There was no other seal that looked quite as it did.

With shaking hands, she bent down and took the letter in her hands. She ripped it open, her heart pounding in her chest as she pulled the letter from its casing, and her eyes fell across the handwriting of the _Vicomte_ ; written elegantly, in rich black ink.

_My love,_

_I have been so terribly cold to you, to my daughters. I regret turning away from you as I did that night. You must know that I was only upset, but as time has passed, I have seen clearly. I have missed the girls so very much, yet it somehow seems I have missed you even more. It is as if a hole now lies where my heart had been. I wish to come see you and the girls as soon as possible. Just for a visit, so I can see your face, and perhaps to make amends with our dear Lillian. Not a day goes by where I do not seek your face. I shall take a train to Lourmarin at the end of this week; I look forward to seeing you, my love. To see the color in your cheeks, the deep of your eyes, and feel the touch of your lips upon mine._

_My love for you is forever, Lotte._

_Yours,_

_Raoul._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? Feelings, thoughts, comments? :)


	14. Aphrodite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I loved you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.”
> 
> \- Pablo Neruda

Anias stepped out carefully across the swirled marble ground, her feet tingling against its cool exterior. She approached a great pool of water, encircled by stone statues of winged horses, mighty in their intricate and muscular designs. In the middle of the pool remained a sculpture of a woman; more picturesque and saddened with deep beauty than the horses themselves; a curved and cold monument of the Goddess Aphrodite, smooth with delicate curves that stood frozen in time.

The raven-haired woman laid herself out upon the steps of the large pool, taking solace in the cool touch of the marble beneath her fingertips. The night was too warm, and her gown scratched at the skin beneath; prickling and tearing, needles pressing into her spine. She slid off the silvery dress, tossing it to the ground with disgust, with abhorrence…just as _he_ had spat his loathing for her mere hours before.

She stood up, a solemn curvature of mineral stone, crowned in stars by the black sky. Her nakedness fluttered in the reflection of the water, a rippling reminder of the sadness that had been torn open within her. She sighed, dipping a toe into the pool, laying gracefully upon her back, forcing herself not to think of _him_ …or worse; of the words she had uttered, of the fate she had written; for the blood lay upon her very hands. She could feel it dripping; a murder, a ferocious hanging from the gallows, yet it was _she_ who felt hung, choking, desperate to breathe…

He had loved her. No, he had _pledged_ himself to her…he had humbled his powerful being to her, gotten down on his knees and begged her… _Duchess, you are mine, and mine alone…_

She squeezed her eyes tight against the transient memory. Why did it burn? Why was it like a fire now; why did it linger ever so, a festering infection upon her very flesh? _Why?_

He had trusted her with everything. The secrets of his past, the things that others did not know, and would never know… _he_ had told her. They had sat many a night by this very pool, surrounded by the great horses of stone, lit by the glittering stars that God painted from above.

_“What do you think of me, truly, Erik? You think me arrogant, and cold, do you not?” She had asked him, smiling coyly as she waited anxiously for his response._

_He had laughed softly. “If you were not arrogant nor cold, Aphrodite, then you would surely not be mine.”_

_She had splashed him then, playfully, brushing the water with the tip of her pale fingers. “So it is true, what they say…you love a woman that is arrogant and cold, a Duchess that cares of nothing but herself?”_

_He had leveled his eyes upon her then, deeply. “Does the Duchess truly care for no one but herself? Or is it a façade, a dream she fabricates to keep away the loneliness that ebbs at her very soul?”_

_She had stared at him, and his eyes did not waver. “You are impossible,” she whispered, breathless, moving softly into his realm to devour his lips, to taste his sweet love upon her tongue…_

“Duchess Estienne?” a gentle voice shattered the visceral memory, dissipating it into a thousand shards as Anias opened her eyes, startled. She turned her head sharply, breathing a sigh of relief as she saw her beloved handmaiden, Simone. The handmaiden stood in the shadow of the grand estate that towered over the forest, approaching with soft footsteps.

“Simone, my dear, come sit with me,” Anias spoke curtly, but the handmaiden could see tear stains dried upon her porcelain cheekbones.

Simone was a young girl, no older than twenty years of age. She had seemingly become the golden handmaiden to the Duchess, a little sister of sorts who took care of her, consoled her, and brushed her long raven locks at the end of each day’s passing. She had short hair, shaven down to the quick like a soldiers’ might have been, yet her features were bright and full of life, with eyes as blue as the ocean’s forbidden depths.

She walked softly across the marble ground and sat next to the Duchess who lay naked, dangling her feet over the pool’s iridescent surface.

“Simone…something has happened. I have done something terrible. Something I cannot take back. And dear, call me Anias, as we spoke of…when no one is around, remember?”

Simone smiled, and nodded. “Yes, I do remember.” She touched Anias on the shoulder gently, drawing nearer to her like a child to their mother’s bosom.

“Tell me, what has happened? What is it that cannot be undone? There must be something that can be done!”

“It is…Erik. I went, as I said I was, to see him…earlier in the night. He…he _hates_ me. He spat venom at me, cursing me, pushing me away from his kiss…he…he compared me to his mother.”

Simone paused. “But…you did reject his proposal, did you not?”

Anias sighed. “I did. I did not think it would…change things completely. I told him I could not, for purposes of the lineage…the family would never approve. Even if father loved him so, I just know…he would be made a mockery of. And that, I could not stand to see. And he would not have it, Simone. He would never fit into my world, this world I was born into. And that is something I cannot help! Should I wish I had been born differently? Should I wish away my father’s name, and my husband who has passed…should I curse it all to _Hell_?”

Simone responded carefully. “No, Anias, I don’t believe you should…it is, well, counterproductive to think this way. Your husbands passing was years ago, and…everyone is expecting you to take another husband, soon. Did you say this to him, when you rejected the proposal? Did you explain the…er…circumstances?”

Anias dipped her foot into the water and back out again, springing droplets off the tips of her toes. “Of course not, Simone…he’s a man with pride, he would have argued against it…he could just, never see it the way I do. But that didn’t mean that…I never loved him. Because I…I still love him. So very much…”

Simone was silent. She stared out across the glistening surface of the pool, obscured by the estate that stood behind, colossal and cold; powerful, yet empty…just as the Duchess was, who laid next to her, drowning in sadness; in deep and endless despair.

“I have an idea, Anias, dear!” Simone exclaimed suddenly, running spidery fingers across her crew-cut hair. “You shall write him a letter.”

Anias sat up, her curiosity somewhat peaked, yet still not believing there could possibly be a way to undo the words she had spoken, the emotions she had torn apart; a man that she had dismantled and left to bleed alone. “A letter? Entailing what, exactly?”

“A letter saying that you wish to remain his friend. That…that you’ve known each other for _far_ too long to let such a venomous rift separate you! Why, in fact, you started out as friends; he constructed this very pool, the statues…the great Aphrodite, for you! So that’s where you must return to… _for now_.”

“For now…and then what? Oh, he wouldn’t even read the damned thing…he would rip it into shreds once he lay eyes upon my seal…considering his reaction upon my appearance earlier, and the words that were spoken…and I… _slapped_ him…”

The handmaiden’s eyes widened. “You…you hit him?”

Anias clawed at her hair; frustrated, broken, and withering. “Yes! He compared me to his mother; a woman who flogged him daily, like a child held in slavery…how was I to react to such a comparison? What could I possibly say against such a phrase?”

Simone looked deep in thought, then slowly smiled. “Dear Duchess, never fear…time heals all wounds. I shall deliver the letter myself…and Erik is quite fond of me! I will _ensure_ he opens it. And if he does, he will consider your friendship…that, we both know to be true.”

Anias slid herself halfway into the water, resting her arms upon the marble stairs that ascended into a silken walkway. Her hair fell across the pool’s surface in inky coils, floating and swaying like long grass pilfered by a summer wind. “And if he doesn’t consider?”

Simone leaned in further. “He _will_ , Anias. He loves you still! You cannot hate someone so deeply without loving them greatly…love and hate are connected, you see. So, if we can somehow extend an olive branch to him; friendship, security…you can slowly and steadily win him back! Then you can accept his proposal, despite whatever your family might say! Unless…that is not what you want?”

Anias’s golden eyes glittered in the blurred noir of the air. “I…I do not know, Simone.”

She tossed her head back and submerged her curves into the water, disappearing from above, from Simone’s wondering eyes. She watched as the Duchess swam underwater, a glistening starlit shape that moved ever so gracefully, so flawlessly…as a bird might soar through the sky.

Anias broke through the glasslike surface, shattering a dream, an innocent memory…she swam to the side of the pool where Simone waited, a dove perched on a thin branch, a messenger waiting on the final signal to fly.

Pursing her full red lips, Anias sighed. “We shall write the letter. But…I cannot promise him a marriage.”

“Oh my Lady, you _must_! It is the only way to show him! The only way to truly express to him your abounding love! That is, of course…if he accepts this olive branch, which he most certainly will!”

The Duchess sighed again, running elegant fingers through her hair that was drenched with cool water; droplets glistening upon her skin like diamonds, stars spread out across the midnight sky. “I will consider it. I shall talk to my father about it.”

“But your father _loved_ Erik! He said so himself; there is _no_ other man capable to take the place by your side, ever since your husband passed…He is the one! But you did not listen to him…”

“How could I?” Anias snapped. “How could I when I knew the entire royal family was waiting in the wings like vipers, ready to thrash out their tongues and devour him as soon as they got the chance? So I’d lead him into a life of humiliation? _No_ …he’d leave me. He refuses to be humiliated. Even for someone he loved.”

“Do you know that for sure?”

“I know it to be true. He told me himself. Since his childhood, he vowed never to be subject to such humiliation ever again…the man makes vows like a damn knight, for God sakes!”

“He is quite like a knight,” Simone giggled. Anias eyed her, irritated. “Yes, I’m well aware of that.”

“So…we shall write the letter then? And let him come to you, slowly.”

Anias sat quietly, wringing out her long dark hair. It fell in damp tendrils across her shoulders and sculpted white collarbone, ink stains upon her pallid complexion.

“Yes, my dear, we shall. Fetch me some parchment, the inkwell, everything…”

Simone gathered her white skirts and rushed toward the darkened estate, her heart surging with excitement, with danger. _It is I who will deliver the message, I who will save the Duchess from her wretched sadness that seems to devour her whole!_

The handmaiden returned shortly, with all of the desired supplies. There, on the cold marble beside the pool _he_ had built, there, where he had shed blood constructing her intricate designs, the two women devised a letter upon smooth yellow parchment; a Duchess and a handmaiden, with ink stained hands…

_Monsieur Erik Dietrich,_

_I do not write to you to beg for your forgiveness. Instead, I wish only to ask of your friendship, as you are the only true friend I have seen within this life. You were the one to intervene when my husband would beat me; you were the one to console me, who built me a pool because you swore that “waters are healing”. I remember everything. And although you find my words and actions repulsive, I do regret that night I pushed myself upon you, expecting you to forgive words that could not be forgiven. I understand I have been vile; I have been wicked towards you, and I have hidden the whole truth from you. I seem to be what they say; a cold and lifeless statue, just like the winged horses you built to stand watch over me. Please accept my friendship, as I fear I will never share such a bond with anyone else in this cruel world. I will not beg, nor will I force you to do anything you do not wish to do. The choice is yours alone. But I extend the olive branch of peace, of friendship, and utility, and I pray you will reach out and receive it._

_\- Aphrodite._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...? Two different letters...one to our dear Erik, and one to our beloved Christine...thoughts, feelings, and feedback please :)


	15. For the sake of your own heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all my amazing readers who continue to love and review this story. Again, please do leave a review if this story leaves any emotion or impact on you. Reviews fuel my writing further, and truly make my day, every time I receive one. :)
> 
> German Command: Pass auf means "watch out." 
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy...

Christine threw open the bedroom door with such force that it slammed against the wall; a thunderous growl in the still of the morning. She clutched the letter against her chest, fingers trembling against the anxious hammering of her heart. _A letter of caution, a letter of brokenness…what am I to do with such a letter? Am I to rip it, to burn it, to pretend that the words had never been etched upon the parchment? Or is this a fate I must face…a fate I had written for myself so very long ago…?_

She threw an exquisite robe of white cotton over her undergarments hastily before charging out of the room; flying down the flight of stairs, a sparrow fleeing from a dangerous pursuit with a hawk. The kitchen was full of clear morning light, and Claudia sat peacefully at the wooden table, sipping black coffee out of a carved clay mug.

“ _Claudia_.” Christine reached the table, a whirlwind of pallid cotton and flushed skin. “Claudia…I…please read this,” she shoved the letter toward where Claudia sat, pacing anxiously as Claudia leaned forward, her brows furrowed as she spoke. “This letter arrived early this morning, my dear…and I _did_ see the seal…I thought it best you read it in private, so I slid it under your door.”

“Claudia, please…” it was a desperate cry, a plead, a creasing of pain within her voice that concerned Claudia instantly. “Claudia, please read it. Please. I…I do not know what to do with myself…”

“Alright dear, calm down, my sweet…it can’t be anything too dreadful, now can it?” she replied, reaching toward the parchment and smoothing out its surface. Her eyes flickered over the carefully etched words, each one seeming to be carved more delicately than the last. As she finished reading, she sat back in her chair, brows furrowed even deeper, folding her arms across her chest. “Christine, dear, what is truly so horrific about this letter? He is coming in a week’s time, which gives you time to…prepare, I suppose…”

“You remember the conversation we had in the garden, after I raced off upon Viktor, do you not?” Christine was pacing faster now, her thoughts a spiral of dread; _I am not ready to see him. I cannot look him in the eyes and give him the kiss he begs me for…I cannot._

“Yes, my dear, of course I do. I understand. Do you wish you tell him that it is too soon? That you do not wish to see him just yet?”

“No,” Christine replied briskly, chewing away at her bottom lip. “No, he mentioned visits briefly before I took my leave. So I feel I must oblige him.”

A puzzled look crossed Claudia’s tanned face. “My dear…what is it you’re trying to tell me? You can trust me, you know this. With anything. I shan’t say a word, only perhaps to the horses,” she chuckled. Christine stopped pacing and slowly seated herself into a chair at the table. “Lillian overheard our conversation, back at the De Chagny Estate…she heard of his plans to send her away. So, upon parting she…she told him that she hated him.” There. The words were finally out. Now to begin the rest…she could not fathom, but she must. Claudia was her only ally, her trusted friend, a woman of strength and love…of course, besides _him_ …Erik, the knight of the purple field, the architect, with scars covering his forearms, who had thrown her up to her balcony, who had written her a song… _her_ song…

“I see,” Claudia answered slowly. “So you fear Lillian’s reaction upon his arrival? Then you must tell him you need more time, dear. Unless he is…imposing, so to speak.”

“There…there is more,” Christine said, her voice dropping to a whisper; as the twins still lay asleep in their room not far from the kitchen. “I…I do not want him to know about… _Erik_.”

Claudia stared at her softly, understanding without any explanation, somehow. “I see,” she replied gently, smoothing out the parchment again. “Well, my dear, it is going to be quite difficult to keep the girls from talking about him.”

“I know, I have thought the same thing,” Christine covered her face in her hands, distressed and pulled apart at the seams. “And…Claudia…Erik, well, he…he does not know about…the Vicomte.” The words were a release inside her chest, an anxiety she had carried around since she had seen him part the crowds with his presence.

“Christine,” Claudia eyed her, now speaking quite sternly. “You must tell him. You must. He is not a man that handles deceit very well. In fact, he considers himself to revel within the truth of things, always. This, you must know. You _must_ tell him.”

Christine stood up suddenly, gripping the ends of the table with bone white knuckles, her face gone ghastly white. “I cannot, Claudia, I cannot! He would run, he would disappear, he would hide himself away from me, from the girls…he would leave me alone,” she felt tears brimming the edge of her vision, and then they began to fall, trickling down her cheekbones like cool summer rain.

“My dear. Then perhaps you do not know him as well as you think.” Claudia’s eyes were gentle but firm as she took another sip from her ornately carved mug. “He must know the truth. He must know your feelings towards your marriage. Just as you explained it quite intricately to me, in the garden.”

“What if he leaves me alone? I don’t want him to leave me alone,” she whimpered; she was a fearful child all over again, sitting at her father’s bedside as he lay cold, the life flowing out of his veins, his face, his eyes… “ _I don’t want him to leave me alone.”_

Claudia stood up and made her way over to the crumpled young woman who seemingly sat in darkness within the bright light of the morning. She cupped Christine’s face in her calloused hands, kissing her upon the forehead tenderly. “My dear, I can promise you that he would never do such a thing. I’ve known Erik for quite some time; he is not the man to simply dissipate out of fear because of a tangled and confusing past.”

“Do you…you promise? That if I tell him, he will not leave me alone? Promise me,” Christine whispered, tears falling freely upon the wooden swirls of the tabletop. “Promise me.”

“I promise, my dove. And I do not make promises that I am not completely sure of. This, you must know about me.”

Christine smiled at this woman; this motherly figure who stood before her, understanding her, untangling the depths of the abyss _with_ her; unstringing the ties that were too knotted up to undo…

“I shall tell him,” she murmured. “I shall tell him the truth of it, of all of it.”

“Good! Now, about this letter,” Claudia released her hands from Christine’s face, drumming her fingertips upon the table’s surface. “We shall need to prepare for his arrival, of course. You must tell the Vicomte your feelings, Christine, even if it hurts you deeply. You cannot play this role anymore, as you said. You are a woman, and you must be honest for the sake of your children, and most importantly; the sake of your heart.”

Christine nodded numbly. She would have to tell him the truth; that she had been wilting for seven years, and he had not noticed; that she had wanted to die, several times. That her soul had been crying out into a pitch-black void, screaming for someone, _anyone_ to listen…yet no one ever had. But he would, this time. He would have to hear her now.

“We must tell the twins not to speak of Erik, and hopefully, they heed our instructions; as we would not want a…rift, of sorts to form between the two men. We would not want the Vicomte to think…well, to think that anything was going on between the two of you,” Claudia finished, her blue eyes prodding into Christine, analyzing her, as if speaking her own thoughts aloud in the stillness of the room. “Yes,” Christine stammered, “Of course. And there is nothing, Claudia! He is simply a friend, of course. And the twins are enamored by him…something I think Raoul will not find appeasing in the least bit.”

Claudia nodded, sipping from her mug again. “Would you like some coffee my dear? You look as if you haven’t slept,” she muttered, changing the subject abruptly. Christine was relieved of the change in conversation, and her anxieties felt somewhat soothed by Claudia’s wise and comforting words. “Yes, Claudia dear, I shall take a cup, if you do not mind.”

A rustling could be heard then, from the room that branched off from the kitchen. “Ah, it appears our angels have awoken,” Claudia smiled. “Go dear; I shall prepare your cup.”

Christine softly moved out of the kitchen and through the small but quaint parlor that led to the twins’ bedroom. She knocked gently on the door, then let herself inside the room quietly. The room was breathtaking; it was large enough for a grand four-poster bed to stand off to the right side, against the beige stone walls. There were paintings on every wall; splashes of ocean, strokes of light and vibrant radiance that seemed to crawl out from their frames. A soft fur rug covered the floor, a lustrous golden brown with streaks of dark vermillion. And inside the silken shades of the four-poster bed sat the twins, giggling together as they played with their dolls, still wiping sleep away from both of their eyes.

 _“Maman!”_ Lillian squealed as she caught sight of her mother’s form through the silvery curtains. “Come play! We were just waking up, talking about our dreams!”

“Oh yes!” Marie chimed in. “There was a castle and a prince…and we rode on Magnus the whole way there!”

Christine laughed, sweeping aside one curtain and seating herself on the edge of the bed. “Those dreams sound lovely, my dears. Truly lovely. But you must wash up for breakfast, for today, we shall dance!” Christine stood up, grabbing onto one of the bedposts, kicking one leg into a delicate arch. The twins gasped at their mother; an angel clad in a white robe, holding her posture tightly while gracefully extending an arm. She was a ballerina again, truly; the light from the window crowned her hair with a golden hue, bestowing upon her face a rich angelic glow. The twins scrambled out of bed, tucking their dolls neatly back into the sheets, rushing clumsily to wash up for breakfast.

The day floated by like a dream, or so it seemed. Christine spent the late morning and afternoon teaching the twins the basics of ballet; proper footing and pliés, and they drank up her lessons with an insatiable eagerness. Claudia was diligently sewing all the while, with brilliant and rich textured fabrics surrounding her as she worked. She seemed to work for hours without care, engorged within the intricacies of her pieces, handling each fabric with delicacy and ease.

The evening light slowly crept in through the windows, and although Christine was exhausted from the arduous dance lessons with the girls, she could not help but feel a pit of dread forming in her stomach. _The night is coming, which means he is coming._ He would be there again, in the forest, calling out with that voice that stole from her, that filled her, that tore away her fears, somehow… _he would be there_. And she would have to tell him the truth of it all. Her heart ached, fearing that Claudia would be wrong; that he would turn his back and disappear into the darkness, never to return to the foot of her balcony. That she might never hear his voice in the woods again; the polished and rough tenor that seemed to devour her whole. She sat at the table, her thoughts whirling, spinning out of control. She could not lose this man from her life; that much she knew.

**…**

The night was deep, rich with humidity that seemed to gather like wisps of smoke in the air. Erik reveled in it as he stepped out of the side door of his house, embracing the warm breeze with parted lips. He wore dark riding breeches with leather boots, and a prominent scarlet silk shirt that draped slightly from the robustness of his upper body. The sleeves were rolled up neatly, and the silk shirt was unlaced slightly, revealing dark chest hair already beaded with sweat.

He turned to Magnus who waited patiently by his side, stroking the beast’s head with a few fingers. “Shall we, little king?” he murmured, “for the night is dark and wild; thus, we must lose ourselves in its wake.”

“Monsieur Dietrich?” a small voice came out of the darkness, and Erik’s body tightened, grabbing a sharp hold of Magnus’s leather collar immediately. “ _Pass auf_ ,” he murmured, and Magnus instantly began to lunge forward, a growl rumbling in the depths of his throat. “Show yourself, or my bloodhound will find you, be certain of that,” he drawled, his voice a threatening snarl.

A young girl walked out of the forest draped in a sage colored cloak. She stepped into the light of the moon, and Erik straightened his form, whispering, “Magnus, _Aus_.” The dog obeyed, closing his jowls and falling silent, observing the cloaked figure cautiously.

“Simone, I have not seen you in quite some time. You startled me,” he spoke casually, although the back of his neck prickled.

She giggled, walking up to him where he stood, right outside of his side door. “And where are you going this late into the night, Monsieur?”

“I could ask you a similar question. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Simone was caught off guard by his cold and nonchalant demeanor, but surged forward with her plan nonetheless. “I have something for you,” she whispered, leveling her deep blue eyes with his. “It is of high importance that you read it.”

“If it’s from the Duchess, tell her she would have been better off not wasting parchment and ink,” he replied icily. Simone shifted her feet nervously; she had not expected his reaction to be _this_ adverse. 

“I want you to know that there’s more to her story than she would ever say,” Simone blurted. “She didn’t want you to be mocked, by the family. She thought you would leave, should you be subject to such humiliation.”

He paused, running a hand through his slicked hair. “Well, she was right to have thought that.”

He began to walk, pushing past the young girl, making his way to the earthen path of the forest. “Erik, please!” Simone called out desperately. “At least take the letter, please. Rip it up, for all I care…but at least give her the dignity of reading what she has to say, first.”

He turned on her sharply, menacingly. She began to back away slowly, frightened by the anger that had glazed over his eyes; that seemed to make him blind. “You want to talk to _me_ about dignity?” he hissed, gritting his teeth at her; a wild beast out of a nightmare.

“Please, Monsieur, I meant no harm, please, just take it! Just take it, please. Do with it what you will…just take it off of my hands!” she begged, almost in tears. The stars cast an eerie glow off her closely shaved head, making her absurd appearance almost wraithlike.

“Give it to me,” he snarled, and she shoved it toward him, almost violently. He snatched it from her, tossing it over his shoulder. “There, you get your _wish_ , little girl! It is out of your hands. Now _leave_ , or my beast will give you a _mark_ you won’t ever be able to forget.”

Simone turned on her heels and fled without a word, running into the dark of the forest, disappearing from his sight within seconds. Erik sighed, staring down at Magnus, who looked up at him with curious eyes. “It was a threat, little king; I had no intentions of sending you after her.” The dog grunted in response, and Erik smiled, stroking his silky head. “You are one of my most treasured weapons, little king. As always, your obedience is matchless; there are none others like you.”

The pair ventured forward upon the earthen path, soon swallowed up whole by the threshold of woods. Erik had left the letter lying in the dirt near the side door, and there it sat restlessly, a blood stain upon white wool. 

He made his way through the dark of the brush, jogging occasionally to keep up with his beast, whose panting could be heard amongst the chirping of crickets. “You are out of shape, my friend,” Erik laughed as he surpassed the dog, smiling and gently flicking one of his pointed ears. “Ah, I jest, little king. You could outrun me any day.”

As the beige stone of the cottage came into view, Erik’s heart lurched. He ran his hand through his hair again, suddenly overcome with a tingling nervous sensation; what if she did not return to the balcony? What if she did not wait for him, upon her windowsill?

But as he moved closer, he glimpsed her unmistakable form upon the balcony, looking out into the sky, the atmosphere that whispered to him… _Go to her, go to her…_

_“She seems unnerved, she seems_

_distraught, what can I do? She_

_cannot be bought, she cannot be_

_soothed, she cannot be tamed,_

_And here she stands, here she stays!_

_Is she dreaming? Is she longing?_

_For who…can say?_

_Who can truly say?_

_What thoughts dance upon her mind,_

_What puts her wrists in binds, what_

_Tears apart her lips, what truly, does_

_She think, this woman, an angel,_

_A devil on her shoulder…_

_Yet here she stands, here she stays,_

_A whisper, a scream, a midnight stray,_

_For her heart speaks aloud_

_what her mind betrays…”_

The last note faded from his lips as he reached the bottom of the balcony, the tower from which she stood. He stared up at her, waiting, feeling sweat beads trickling between his shoulder blades.

“Erik,” she breathed, bending herself over the rails of the balcony to reach his longing gaze. “That…that was…”

“A bit messy? Yes, I am aware, I…I improvised it,” he said to her softly.

She shook her head furiously. “Do not steal words that have not been spoken from my lips, _Monsieur_ ,” she teased, smiling at him. “It was simply…astounding. Your voice, it’s…very…well, perhaps the most beautiful voice I have ever heard.”

He raised his eyebrows, cocking one side of his mouth slightly. “Christine, that is quite the compliment, coming from a woman of your stature, your background…”

“And that is what makes it all the more meaningful,” she responded. “Well, are you going to catch me, or just stand there with your arms at your sides?”

Erik threw back his head and laughed. He held out his arms obediently, murmuring, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Again she fell through the air, tossed effortlessly by the wind, just as fearless as she had been the night before. And he caught her in his arms, and the two brushed noses again, but this time Christine held the touch, the brush of his nose, for just a moment longer.

His body seemed to lock up, and he slowly pulled her away, planting her feet softly upon the ground. He gazed at her deeply, and she stared back, but he could see something different within her eyes; nervousness? Anxiety and worry, something that roused her spirit, that had not been there the night before?

Erik held out his hand, and she took it without hesitation. “Christine,” he turned to her, still grasping her tender pale hand. “You are worried…is something, wrong?”

“Take me to our field,” she murmured, “and we shall talk there.”

He pulled her gently through the dark, without another word. They were silent the entire journey to the field, surrounded by the sounds of midnight forest, and the soft pitter-patter of Magnus’s paws on the darkened dirt path.

They reached the clearing, and the night sky expanded out across the earth before them. A million speckles of stars were spread out in the black void of the sky, a million pinpricks that betrayed the secret of heaven beyond. Erik let go of her hand, and sat down between blossoms of purple, running a finger through the dirt. Christine sat silently beside him, nervously biting at her lip.

“Erik…there is something I…I must tell you,” she stammered, her heart thundering in her chest. He turned toward her, covering her in his unadulterated gaze, causing her to feel revealed, vulnerable…as if his eyes ripped away at the darkness that surrounded her. 

“Tell me,” he replied softly. “You can tell me anything.”

She paused. “It is a secret that I did not want anyone to know about me, here…and I…well, I am not sure how to say it. Erik, I…”

“You are so anxious, I can see you biting away at your lip. So, allow me to soothe your worries, Christine. You tell me your secret, and I tell you mine.”

She froze, staring at him intensely. “You…you would tell me a secret? But say it is not as…as dreadful as mine?”

He laughed, almost bitterly. “I don’t believe there’s anything you could possibly tell me that is even with, or worse than the secret I carry.”

She reached out then, touching a scar on his left forearm. “Do these have to do with your secret?”

“Yes,” he whispered, reaching out his hand suddenly, extending a single finger and running it down her own forearm. “Yes.”

His touch ran a shiver down her spine, a tingling that coursed heat into the underside of her breasts. She sat next to him, underneath the glaze of the moon and the millions of stars that kept watch. She exhaled slowly, keeping her eyes locked upon his gaze…ready to admit her truth to him, to this man who sat between sprouts of lilac, who had caught her in his powerful arms; this man who had brushed noses with her, who had ran his finger down her forearm, who had sang in the midst of the dark…and Claudia’s words rang in her head, a song of freedom, of strength, smelling of lilac… _Do this Christine, for the sake of your own heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger...any thoughts, comments, or feelings are welcomed and much appreciated :)


	16. Dauntless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't say too much...but a HUGE thank you to my readers who continue to leave me amazing reviews! You guys make my day, seriously. You all are amazing. That being said...please enjoy this emotional and tumultuous chapter :) Reviews are always appreciated!
> 
> Dauntless definition: "incapable of being intimidated or subdued: fearless, undaunted." - Merriam Webster Dictionary 
> 
> Without further ado, I give you...

“Erik, I…I am a _Vicomtesse._ ”

The night was silent and still, as was he who sat next to her in the dirt; he who held her gaze with a gentle yet impenetrable scrutiny.

She sighed heavily, her breath tight in her throat like the silken sheets that tangled and twisted around her neck in her nightmares; the bed sheets that wove themselves into a tight leather cord, strangling; sheathing her in the sickening stench of sweat and blood.

“Before I continue…promise me something. Promise you will not leave me alone.”

Erik was pensive as he sat, maneuvering his body to face her entirely. He reached out again with a single finger, running it gently over her knuckle that was clenched in the damp earth. “I promise,” he replied softly, his eyes taking in every inch of her tenderly.

“Erik…I am in a marriage with a _Vicomte_. I am in a marriage where I have lost myself. I…I have wanted to die, over and over…I…I wanted to fling myself out every open window, so that maybe I could…escape these…these emotions that plague me…this…this sickness upon my very spirit. I feel as though I…I am living, yet…at the same time, I am already dead.”

He was soundless as he listened, never breaking his gaze from hers. Her breathing became ragged, and suddenly she reached out and grabbed his hand. It was warm and solid, rough but tender; it soothed her to hold onto him physically, to ensure that he would not back away from her. She could feel the fluttering of his pulse upon the smooth underside of his wrist.

His hand curled to intertwine her pale trembling fingers with his own. “Continue,” he breathed, quietly.

Her grip tightened on his hand. “I came here because I felt I was…dying. Not physically of course, and I know it sounds absurd…yet I was _withering_ on the inside. I have been playing a role, this horribly isolated and silent part of an aristocratic wife! I followed him around like a dog, Erik…with my lips closed, my singing thrown to the depths of hell…and I soon followed! I cannot even look myself in the mirror, I cannot even look into my own eyes because…I see how very broken that I am, that I’ve become…” She blinked back tears. Her chest was heaving, and suddenly the world was blurry, and she was crying…she was crying amidst the words that trapped her yet freed her, and altogether harmed her…yet the words spoken aloud made them real; so real, she could almost reach out and touch them as they floated from her lips. The words were no longer a delusion slicing away at her heartstrings; it was simply a truth; _her_ truth, and she whispered this truth to a man with a scarred face, in a vast field of lilacs that bloomed; a widespread fire of purple beneath the pale face of the moon.

In one swift movement, he pulled her close to him with such strength that she followed immediately, obediently, and without care. He laid her head in his lap, stroking her curls out of her face as she sobbed, whimpering like a child. “Continue,” he whispered. “It is alright, Christine. Tell me all. Tell me about the mirror. Tell me about the depths. I see it in your eyes.”

She laughed through her tears; a pitiful laugh, but a cry of relief nonetheless. “You will not run from me? You would not cast me out?”

“Never,” he drawled, running a finger down the ridge of her nose. “I would not dream of it. Although…you being married, it is not too surprising. You are too beautiful not to be.”

She sighed, her breathing decelerating slightly as she looked up at him from where she lay. “It is Lillian, too. Not just me. My husband’s family would not accept her because of…the birthmark. That is why we have come here.”

He let his hands fall from her face, and into the dirt beside him. “I see.” His voice was nonchalant, composed; but Christine could hear a cold change in his tone of voice. She sat up, lifting her head from his lap briskly. She looked at him closely, but he averted his eyes from her gaze, tracing a finger in the earth once more; outlining haphazard patterns and shapes; swirls that made no sense, that held no rules about their strange curvatures.

“Erik, this was very hard for me to tell you, and I don’t want you to…”

He eyed her sharply. “You don’t want me to _what_ , Christine?”

She felt tears brimming at the edge of her eyes. “I don’t want anything to change. For the girls…for…for…”

“For what?” he snapped at her, his eyes cold. “For _you_? For _me_? You tell me you are _married_ , yet you want me to continue to catch you as you fall? To sing you into sweet sleep? That is the job of your _Vicomte_ , is it not?”

Christine’s heart beat fearfully inside of her chest. He was hurt; he was angry, betrayed, even… “This is why I made you promise!” she cried, tears falling down her cheeks and onto her lips. “This is why I was so afraid to tell you! I was afraid you would turn away…that you would turn away from me! That you would be angry with me.”

He stood up abruptly and began to pace. “Christine, I am not angry. I am just a little…oh, let’s call it _confused_ – upon what exactly you want from me. You are royalty, you are married, and you are fleeing from your horrible life in aristocracy, clinging to me as if I will save you!” He laughed bitterly. “I have been such a fool.”

“No! You have not been a fool. Because I…I have come here wanting to start anew. Remember the conversation we had, the first time in the field? Do you remember? I have loved badly, Erik…I have loved before even knowing my own heart! Do not act as if you don’t understand…do not make this about _you_!”

He stared at her, his breathing slowing. “This man…the _Vicomte_ …do you love him?”

She bit her lip, tearing the tender flesh with her teeth sharply. “I did…but that was many years ago. I no longer love him. I have not loved him for a very long time.”

His demeanor softened then. He sat down in the dirt, running a hand through his sleek dark hair. “I…I have lashed out at you. Forgive me, I…I was angry, for a moment. I have a temper, Christine. I did not mean to take it out on you.”

She let out a long breath. “It is alright…I understand why you would be angry, with me. But it has become so complicated, and I wanted you to know the truth. Of everything. I…I do not wish to hide anything from you.”

Erik seemed uncomfortable, distraught, suddenly. He would not look at her in the eyes. “It seems you have told me your truth, and I have promised to tell you mine…”

“I promise not to run away from you. I promise.”

“You may be making a promise you are unable to keep,” he replied softly. He still would not look at her. Christine’s heart surged; what was it that could be so horrifying? What was it that held his eyes from hers; that edged shame into the silhouette of his form?

“There is only one other person that I have told this to. And she…she eventually cast me out. So, you can imagine my reluctance.” He spoke softly, his tone of voice numb, unfeeling, and distant.

“Well…I am not her,” Christine replied, her voice a whisper. Her heart soared; she had told him the truth. She had told him, and he had pulled her closer. He had stroked her hair, soothed her with his touch…he had promised to never leave. He had promised.

Erik smoothed his hair with both hands, and wiped the sweat beads from his brow. “I shall start from the beginning, so that you may understand better. I was not born with _this_ , Christine. These burns and scars on my face; they were given to me.”

Her mouth fell open in utter disbelief. “What…what do you mean? Who did this to you?”

He sighed again, his eyes changing before her sight instantly; glazing over into a darkness, a window to the past that had been locked, the key thrown to the depths of hell.

“When I was very little, my father was not around much. This, I have already told you,” he began. “My mother did not hate me for my face, at least not at first. She hated me because…well, I am not sure why, exactly. I have never known why. She simply just…wanted control of me. She took sport in seeing me whimper, inflicting pain upon me, and most of all…she loved to see me cry.

“One day, when I was very young, perhaps five…she brought me into the kitchen. She locked the door, and heated some coals in the fireplace. She told me that she was going to give me a _gift_. So I sat willingly, as a child would, excited at the thought that perhaps my mother would be kind for once; would extend me her hand…that she would comfort in the midst of her tormenting…yet, it was a gift that I would never be able to take off. She grabbed me by the back of the neck, and she pressed the right side of my face into the coals and held me down. Never have I felt such pain, Christine. Never have I felt so foolish in my life…never have I felt so trapped. So utterly trapped, and so deeply betrayed…the woman that birthed me scarred me, took away my symmetry, my sense of normalcy…she wanted to destroy my life, inch by inch.”

The night became terribly hot upon Christine’s skin as she took in his words. Suddenly she felt an urge, an urge that glowed like the coals from his past, the marks on his face…the wretchedness that had been stained upon him. She had an urge to kiss his burns, to stroke them with her fingers, softly…to take his pain away from him, somehow…

But before she could lean in and close the space between them, he parted his lips and continued, avoiding her gaze, even still. “My mother marked me. She told my father it was an accident, that I had fallen into the coals, and for awhile, he believed her…until he caught her whipping me, tied to a tree. This is why…oh, Christine, it is so hard for me to say this to you. Because perhaps I am not the man you believe me to be.”

The urge pushed at her forcefully, whispering to her. The demons were gone; silenced, and she felt peace that resounded within the entirety of her being; a clearness, as if she could see past the horizon and into the heavens beyond.

“Erik…tell me. Tell me all, as you said to me. I shall never turn my back on you.”

He sighed again, licking his lips. “I was never able to shake the fury that I felt towards her. Even when my father took me away, I had an insatiable desire to…to seek retribution, somehow. When I finished studying at the conservatory, I left my father’s home in search of work…and I…I…I wanted to kill,” he whispered. He continued to evade her gaze, and she sat silently, frozen in the earth next to him. 

“I trained with a small group of men in Germany that were prevalent in a certain…art, at the time. I was young, angry, and drunk upon my power, my elusive and natural skills, my temper, my intimidating nature…and these men, they loved me for it. They embraced me for it, every inch of me. And I became…quite a monster. Upon my completion of training, I was quite skilled in the arts of…seeking, and killing. I became a _gewinnsüchtig._ A man who is hired to kill. A mercenary, who cared not of those he ended, but relished within each kill. And I…I loved it, Christine. And every man that I killed, for profit, for money...it was never about the money. I could have cared less. Every time a man died by my hands, I would imagine her face; my mother, over and over…and it bled me dry, yet it powered me; gave me back my control. Gave me back the right half of my face. When I would look in the mirror, my face covered in another man’s blood…it almost looked whole again. Almost.”

Christine stood up rigidly. “You…you killed. For money?”

He could not look her in the eyes. “Yes,” he whispered, a tear falling down his scars. “And I loved it. I became lost in it. So very lost.”

She stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to speak. Her eyes prodded into him. “Erik…look at me. _Look at me!_ ”

He covered his hands with his face, and began to weep. His shoulders shuddered with every breath, and he whispered pitifully, “ _Just leave_. Leave me alone. It is what everyone does. I have killed so many. You are sickened, I know you are sickened! As you should be. Leave me, Christine. _Just leave me alone!”_ he sobbed. Magnus came trotting out from the brush, and instinctively laid next to his master. The beast looked up at Christine with wise dark eyes, and laid his head upon Erik’s lap.

She thought of the abyss. She thought of the windowpanes that called out her name. She thought of the darkness that had grown inside of her like venomous vines, for years. And she looked down at him, his powerful form cowering in shame, in deep despair, in utter regret and unfathomable sadness.

“No,” she said softly. “I won’t leave you. I promised, or have you forgotten?”

He slowly lowered his hands from his face. His gaze shone bluer than ever before, contrasted against the bloodshot white of his eyes that lay stained with blood, that seethed with brokenness.

His bottom lip was quivering, and suddenly she saw a child. She saw a child tied to a tree, beaten senselessly; she saw a little boy that had followed his mother into the kitchen, skipping happily…only to have his face shoved into the coals she had heated. She saw his body writhing underneath the heat of it, screaming…she saw his mother laughing, pulling his face away… _Now your outsides match your insides, little boy!_

Christine knelt down next to him, feeling the dampness of the earth beneath her fingertips. The earth was bleeding with him, crying with him…and clouds covered the stars above, shrouding the sky, a smudge in the mirror, a smear on a painted canvas…

She slowly reached out and placed a hand upon his forearm. “Erik,” she murmured.

“You think of me differently,” he whispered mournfully. “And why wouldn’t you? Why wouldn’t anyone?”

“Do not put words in my mouth, Erik,” she said gently. “Did I run? No. I am still here. I am still sitting beside you.”

His breathing was still wracked with sobs, and tears poured down his cheeks, reddening his complexion. “I should have never told you. You will never look at me the same. Never!”

“Stop it,” she spoke harshly. “Stop. I will not allow you to wallow in the sins of your past! Just as I can no longer sit in my rotting chains. But promise me this…you will never kill again. Never.”

Erik stared at her incredulously. “It was years ago, Christine…and I…I would never go back to that place. I lost myself in anger, in my own misery, my own hatred…it nearly destroyed me.”

“There is no future in the past, Erik. You have killed, and that is… _hard_ , for me to believe, but…you cannot sit in your shame! And I am still here. I won’t leave you. Not even for this.”

“God,” he covered his face again, shaking his head. “Promise me you will still see me the same. Unless that is something you…you cannot promise…to which I would understand…”

Christine reached out and tore his hands away from his face. “Stop it, Erik. Stop it. I am still here. I am here, with you.” She grabbed his tearstained face with her hands then, and kissed him roughly upon his full quivering lips. She stroked the sides of his face, breaking their kiss only to wipe away his tears. His eyes mixed in with hers, drinking in the love that could be felt within her fingertips that travelled the length of his neck. She kissed him again, more gently this time, tasting the tip of his tongue with her own, exploring his lips, devouring him whole. He tasted of tears, of sadness…of the earth that bled beneath his hands, mourning for him…

He broke her kiss, softly. “You…you do not fear me? You will not…cast me out?”

She did not answer him. She surged forward again, enveloping him into another deep kiss, weaving her fingers into his smooth black hair; a raven’s feather. She pushed him onto the ground, into dampness of the earth, kissing the sides of his face; the burns from his mother’s hands…kissing away the pain, away the blood that had once made him feel whole…

She broke their kiss tenderly. “You do not have to feel that way anymore. And neither do I.”

He stared up at her in disbelief from where he lay in the dirt, breathing heavily. “Why…why is that?”

“I don’t care who you used to be. I care who you’ve become. One sin cannot replace another, but…love can.”

“Love?” he whispered. “Ah, what of love…is it not just a flitting dream?”

“Not to me,” she murmured. “ _Not to me._ ”

He sat up, stroking her thighs with calloused hands. “You are beautiful beyond measure. Your spirit, your soul…it is…indescribable.”

“And you,” she whispered back, brushing her nose with his. “You are my knight. Will you still come to my balcony? Will you still sing to me in the forest?”

He chuckled, wiping the snot from his nose, and the tears that still streaked from the creases of his eyes. “Why would you ever doubt that I wouldn’t?”

“Because I am married. I am a woman trapped in royalty, in binds, in sadness…”

“And I have killed for the sport of it, to seek revenge on my mother, somehow…I have killed men for money, for power…for control.” He replied softly.

“And yet, you are still the same, to me. I do not see a murderer. I see a hurt and frightened child.” She whispered, staring into his eyes that begged for acceptance, for understanding. He was her mirror, he was her release. He was her night sky that was endless, boundless…her stars that silhouetted the outline of the horizon, where the earth met the atmosphere.

“So what will you do, Christine?” he asked, slowly regaining his prior composure. “Will you stay in your binds? Or will you break free?”

“I have already broken free. I am free when I am with you.” She murmured, overcome by his gaze; the love that grew in his eyes; the feelings that stemmed from the smooth touches of his hands. 

“So am I, _Fräulein der Nacht._ So am I.”

And the night surrounded them. Darkness wrapped itself around the pair that sat intertwined in desperate kisses under the pallid moon. And Magnus bounded up, running powerfully into the lilac field, sensing freedom within his master, a letting go of a long and lust filled power. And there was no more control, there was no more power, suddenly… only a release that hung dauntless in the air; and the wind whispered softly, a new song…a song of letting go, a liberation from metallic binds, from chains made by the blood of men. And love seemed to bud as the lilacs bloomed upward, the flowers that surrounded them in their haze; the flowers that matched the scar of a daughter; a purple birthmark, dancing in a sky filled with diamonds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wellllllll? Emotions? Feelings? Comments? All feedback is welcome :) Hehehe


	17. Words Unspoken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late update, my darlings. Thank you to all my beautiful readers who continue to leave detailed reviews. You are my life force. Again, reviews are always highly appreciated. Now, without further ado, please enjoy…

Once again, Raoul stood in the very same parlor that had once been forbidden for him to enter as a child. Rich scarlet curtains were fastened over the front windows, cutting out daylight with elusive velvet façades. There were lustrous and plush armchairs arranged carefully into a semicircle, centering around a long mahogany table that was home to a few delicate wine glasses and a crystalline ash tray. His mother stood at the other end of the room, smoking a cigarette out of a jade opera length cigarette holder. Crows feet pulled at the corners of her pale blue eyes, yet she held herself with poise; a stoic and elegant woman of proper taste. She let the smoke unfurl dangerously from her lips, eyeing her son cautiously, curiously…

“Raoul, my darling, please sit,” The Comtesse purred, moving smoothly across the floor toward an emerald colored armchair; her favorite. She sat soundlessly; a cat prowling in the night, seething for its precious prey. She arranged her silken skirts around her; magenta, a seemingly wild color that contrasted ludicrously against her colorless complexion. She wore her grey hair in a polished up-do, pinned to perfection; not a single hair lay out of place. Raoul strode toward a dark colored armchair – almost pitch black, except for the glimmers of purple and grey that seemed to shine on its luxurious surface. He sat nervously, bouncing his left leg repeatedly.

“Wine, my dear? Or, something stronger, perhaps? I see…distress in your face.” She drawled, taking a long drag off of her cigarette.

Raoul let out a long breath. “Perhaps whiskey, mother, if you have any.”

“Certainly!” The Comtesse was pleased. Matters must always be discussed over spirits and liquor in _her_ parlor; this was the rule that seemed to etch itself into bowels of Raoul’s mind. He was not opposed to this drink however; this time he welcomed it gladly, for his insides had been churning with uneasiness since the moment he entered the Comte and Comtesse’s elaborate estate.

A servant seemed to materialize out of thin air, gripping a heavy bottle filled with amber liquid. “Thank you, Demonte, and do leave the bottle, please. That will be all.”

The servant nodded, and disappeared from the room with haste. The Comtesse leaned forward, seizing a stray empty glass, filling it halfway with the silken liquid. “Drink, my son, as we have much to discuss,” she replied, her pale eyes piercing like tiny needles into his soul.

“Yes, mother, it appears we do,” Raoul said tersely as he took a long swig of the drink. It fell down his throat, spiced and brutal, yet soon filled his fingers with a powerful and pleasant numbness.

“I want to know why you’ve allowed your wife to take leave with the girl. Your father and I have _truly_ been brimming with curiosity,” she spoke nonchalantly, although there were darkened undertones in her articulation. She took another drag of her cigarette, flicking the ashes into the clear crystal tray. Her eyes never left his as she posed the question, and the words felt stagnant; filling the room like the smoke and nicotine that reveled within her lungs.

“Mother, she begged me to go. I could not deny her this. She…she was sick.”

“Sick, you say? So she has an illness, and you chose to send her away? Not exactly what I would do for one that bears an illness,” the Comtesse countered, her sarcasm dripping like the beads of sweat that ran rampant down the Vicomte’s back.

“It was not a sickness, mother…she…she said she felt as though she were dying. Fits of hysteria, decreased appetite…symptoms of that nature,” he replied dryly, taking another deep drink out of his glass. The glass, heavy with liquid still, felt like a weapon in his hand. The numbness would serve him well, this evening.

“Oh. It seems not only have you chosen a _low born_ woman; you have chosen one who has seemingly lost her wits! How wonderful, Raoul. How _truly_ wonderful!” Her eyes darkened with irritation. “You didn’t listen to me when I told you she would be nothing but trouble. And look – she has failed to provide you with a male heir; why, the only thing she had to give was a child with a broken face!”

“Mother, that’s quite enough,” Raoul said quietly. “I will not sit here and listen to you speak ill upon my wife. She is simply…suffering, right now. Though I could not tell you why. Some of it did have to do with the…the orders to have Lillian sent away. But there was more…she said it was a…a personal matter.”

“Raoul, my darling,” her voice was mockingly sweet as she sipped wine out of a clear refined glass. “You knew of our plans to disown the child from the beginning; does she know? Did you tell her, as I had instructed?”

“No…I…I found that I could not tell her. It would break her heart, for Christ’s sake!” he glared at her now, clenching his fingers around the glass.

“ _Raoul_ …the papers are being drawn up as we speak. You are to deliver them. _You_! I will not have that child marring the distinguished reputation of the family.”

Raoul stood up abruptly, downing the remains of the amber liquid. “You and father seek to break up this marriage! That’s what this really is about. You never accepted her from the start; the child is just a pawn you’re using to…to instill a _rift_ between Christine and I!” the words were aggressively declared from his lips; ripping from his throat, tearing from his heart; a plague, a burden which he had carried unspoken, for months…

The Comtesse sat silently, unfazed by his outburst. “Unfortunately, _you_ have no say in the matter, my dear son. Why, in fact one might even question the woman’s mental capacity…in the state she is in, is she even _fit_ to be a Vicomtesse? Oh, I wonder. Now that is quite peculiar.”

Raoul sank back down into the armchair, determined not to lose this twisted battle of wits between himself and the Comtesse. He breathed quietly, holding in the fury that swirled deep in his chest, curling to the threshold of his throat. “She is quite capable of holding the role, mother. She is simply ill right now, as I said. That is why I allowed her to take leave, as I believe it will be good for her.”

The Comtesse’s eyes narrowed. “You take me for a fool, do you now? You marry some common filth off the streets, expecting her to fit into this life? She has never belonged, Raoul. You have seen this with your very eyes. Why, perhaps you have caused this sickness within her, hmm? The stress of this life, the role of a Vicomtesse isn’t _meant_ for a woman like her. She will never understand. And she will _never_ belong.”

Raoul squeezed his eyes shut against the words. His lips formed a thin line, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep tears from leaking out. He had thought the very same thing; over and over, over and over. But he had _loved_ her! Couldn’t love just be enough? And if it wasn’t, if it couldn’t be enough…what would be?

“I have chosen her because I _love_ her. Yes, perhaps she is not comfortable in this life. She can no longer perform as she once did…I believe that has had a detrimental effect on her,” he spoke into the silence of the room, into the ambiance of the room that was clouded with fingers of smoke; fingers that beckoned, that mocked…whispering a truth he had denied for seven years.

“Yes, love….love! How elusive in nature it can be. Stay married to her, do as you will; leave her in Lourmarin for a lifetime for all I care! But…the child. The child must never return here. Nor must she take your title. That is truly what we’ve come to discuss today, isn’t it?” The Comtesse leaned forward and filled his empty glass; the golden liquid that called out his name, that thronged the pains springing open in his heart…a lifetime of sorrow, hidden away recklessly.

Raoul stared at his mother, grabbing the glass she had filled and touching the liquid to his lips. “Why is the disownment even necessary? And…Christine will want to know what will change. What has to change, mother? Can the child still dwell with her? She has a twin sister, after all.”

“Hmm, yes, so it seems she does. Raoul, I do not _care_ what you do with the child; send her to an orphanage, or leave her with that seamstress in Lourmarin. I simply want it legally documented that this child is no longer connected to the De Chagny bloodline. That is all, my dear! So keep your precious Christine, keep everything you wish to… the paperwork is meant for the family, truly. But, of course, you _must_ tell Christine. You wouldn’t want to hide this from your wife, now would you?” her voice prickled the back of his neck; she spoke in such a callous and cold manner that for a moment, he wanted to disappear from her sight. To flee from her eyes that analyzed, that ripped apart; that destroyed everything they touched.

But instead, somehow, he remained composed. “A cigarette, please, mother,” he said quietly, tearing a hand through his light blonde hair that was kept in place with a dark ribbon. His mother gently pushed the pack of cigarettes forward on the table, and he snatched one from the intricate packaging. He shoved it between his lips, lighting it with a single match; inhaling the fringes of smoke desperately, as if the nicotine could change the circumstances; as if the room might dissipate like fumes in the air, and he might wake feverishly to discover it all was just a nightmare. That he might wake and find Christine next to him, smiling in her sleep…and know that his girls, his twin girls were fast asleep in the room down the hall. His thoughts vanished as his mother’s lips curled into a wry smile; she held all of the power, the entirety of his circumstance in the palms of her bony hands. And he had no voice, for once in his life. All he could do was suck uselessly on the edge of his cigarette, hoping the whiskey would drown out the brokenness that had edged its way into the deep of his heart.

**…**

Christine followed Erik back through the forest path, clinging to his hand as he led her through the blackness. He hummed a melody as they walked, a song she had never heard before; and she listened as the sound filled her yet emptied her; she was his vase, flawlessly crafted, and he had poured her out, emptied her darkened waters with his understanding; with the gentle touch of his hands.

They reached the foot of her balcony and the humming died from his lips. The moon cast a silver sheen on his broad figure as he turned to face her, looking into her eyes ever so deeply, ever so softly; and he was vulnerable to her, once more. He _had_ been, out in the field…he had cried, he had wept; a child still mourning the loss of half a face, a loss of symmetry, a betrayal from a mother…

Yet, Christine had never felt closer to anyone; to any man within the bounds of her own lifetime.

“Would you like to be lifted?” he asked softly, his lips parting as he stared into her eyes; drinking in every droplet of her beauty, her story, her sadness…

“I…I want you to come up. I want you to sing me to sleep. If it is not too much to ask,” she replied gently, tracing a finger down the white scar on his chest. He shivered at her touch, smiling so wide that the corners of his mouth dimpled. “I think that may be your favorite scar; you seem to love stroking its’ surface. This hasn’t been the first time, Christine,” he teased. She returned his smile, placing her hands on her hips. “And it won’t be the last time, either. But there are many other…scars that I love. Such as the ones on your face.”

Erik drew in a deep breath, and was quiet. He reached out and stroked the tip of her chin with a finger. “It is as if I see your soul so clearly, out here. Out beneath the moonlight, against the soft of the trees.”

“And I see yours, my knight…as clear as the stars above,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck, “so, you shall do as the Queen commands. Sing me to sleep, Erik. Please.” She brushed his nose lightly with hers. He cradled the small of her back with calloused hands, pulling her to his chest; to the scarlet silken shirt that had been soaked with salted tears and sweat. “Christine,” he murmured, rocking her back and forth softly; the steps before a dance would begin, a dance that might ensue endlessly and passionately.

“You should go up to the balcony. I will sing to you from down here,” he whispered in her ear, brushing his lips along the edge of her earlobe. “I fear if I go to your bedroom, I shall never leave.”

Christine shivered from the delicacy of his lips, the brush of their fullness upon her ear. A warmth spread through her chest, from the tips of her breasts to the edges of her fingers. “Erik, please…I’ve been having nightmares. I barely sleep, nowadays.”

“Perhaps you rarely sleep because you spend your nights jumping from balconies and sitting in lilac fields,” he replied, his eyes playful and sweet; a droplet of honey running the edge of a cup.

She laughed, then. “You are right, I have been. But I would not have flung myself unless a certain knight were not there to coerce me into doing so.”

He nuzzled her neck, breathing in her scent deeply. “You must go. And I must go. But, I shall see you tomorrow.”

“Will I ever again see you during the day, Erik?” she asked, running a hand across his exposed chest. “Or are you cursed to only see me at night, when no one is around?”

“I work long hours during the day, as I am working on a new design. But, of course, you are welcome to come to the site tomorrow, if you wish. With Claudia and the girls.”

“I would love to, Monsieur Dietrich. Thank you for such a prestigious invitation.”

He laughed again, showing his teeth to her that glinted white in the moonlight. “Yet, I shall feel bound, by seeing you, because I cannot taste you in the light of day. Not yet.”

“Yes…I shall feel bound as well,” she whispered back. “I will see your eyes and your lips, and…I may die in anticipation while waiting for the night to come.”

“We both may die while waiting. Yet it is your scent that will keep me wishing, keep me waiting…to see your form upon your hallowed tower, once more.”

“You are, most certainly a poet, Erik…I wish you’d come sing me to sleep.”

“You know why I cannot do that. Not yet, Christine.”

She sighed heavily. “I know. Oh, and Erik…one more thing, before you toss me to the sky. The…the Vicomte is coming at the end of the week. This is when I shall tell him the truth of things…of everything.”

He raised his eyebrows. “He is coming to see you? Why?”

“He wrote me a letter. He wants to try to make things right, but I…I believe there are things too broken to fix, in this world.”

“Hmm,” he dropped his arms from her elegant curves slowly. “I see. And I am guessing you…you would want me to stay away, while he is here?”

She shook her head furiously. “No, please don’t stay away. Please still meet me at night, in the lilac field.”

“Christine…” he groaned, tossing his head back. “You ask too much of me. I do not wish to cause any issues…I…would not want…”

“Erik,” she spoke briskly, “You are not causing issues. You have in fact…revealed the issues. To me.”

He raised an eyebrow, standing with his hands at his side. Magnus lay beside him in the dirt, his dark eyes fluttering to stay awake. “And what is it, precisely, that I have revealed to you?”

She stared at him deeply, her heart surging with longing, with desire, yet something more, something stronger altogether. “You have shown me who I want to be. Who I’ve always been; parts of me that I’ve hidden away. I knew since the moment you walked through the crowds at the marketplace. Don’t you see?”

He pulled her close again, kissing her atop her mussed curls. “And what did you feel that could possibly be so profound? What did you see…when you saw me part the red sea?”

She breathed into him. “I knew I never wanted you to leave my side. Not ever.”

Suddenly he whirled her around, grabbing her tiny waist with his hands. “Time to go up, my angel,” he whispered; and then she was flying up towards the sun and the moon, into the atmosphere, surrounded by thousands of sapphire stars. She caught the rungs with her hands; the ballerina that had not spoken, that had not danced, that had not leapt; had instead flown. She pulled herself over the rail, turning quickly to see his face one more time. He stood at the foot of her balcony, breathless and lips parted. “Goodnight, Christine,” he murmured, “for I shall see you tomorrow in the bright light of day.”

And suddenly, he was gone; he had merged into the darkness with his beast; he had disappeared from her sight once again. And there she stood, still breathing in his scent, so visceral in the depths of her mind. And there were no demons, there were no chains. Only a woman standing atop the forest, surveying the earth as if it were now her own. The air smelled of lilac, of smooth summer wind, and of him…and she stood breathing, over and over, staring off into the deep of the night; rising up upon the edge of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? Thoughts, feelings, emotions, feedback? All are welcome :)


	18. The trees have eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize once more for the late update. I want to again thank all my wonderful readers who have continued to love and support this story. You all mean more to me than you know.
> 
> Also note, this chapter takes place simultaneously with the second part of the last chapter, Words Unspoken. 
> 
> Reviews are always strongly appreciated :)

_Lillian found herself racing through the deep of a looming forest, filled to every corner with shadows that contorted, that moved in demented patterns, like a ballerina with a severed leg. The branches from the trees surrounded the path that she ran on; this earthen path that stretched endlessly into the bowels of the earth. She looked up for a moment, her mouth forming a silent scream; for she had seen something fatal, horrific, and perhaps deadly…for the trees had eyes. They had skin that was morphed around the bark into faces; faces that were distorted and exaggerated in their expressions of sickened and wide eyed smiles._

_They were the faces from the marketplace. This, she knew. And she came to a halt, her heart fluttering weakly in her chest, for suddenly it became difficult to breathe; the branches were coiling steadily around her torso and chest, pulling her to the ground with the strength of a thousand wild beasts._

_“Half a face, half a face! Only half a face…” they whispered, the branches pulling her closer to the faces that breathed sickness and death out from curling tongues. The words were a brand upon her chest, and there was no one around; just the nothingness of the dark that seemed to stretch out into an estranged eternity._

_From where she lay, she knew she would die soon; the air was slowly being pulled from her lungs by a thick branch that coiled around her throat; a snake that had snatched its prized meal, its succulent prey. There was then a faint voice, calling out from the empty, from the parts of the world that had not been etched quite yet. It was as if she lay in the thicket of a charcoal drawing, but the edges were blurred, unfinished sketches that faded into blank parchment; and then, into nothing at all._

_She heard the voice grow louder; a man’s voice, the voice of a familiar; her father. He was there, in the drawing that seemed to move, that seemed to be so real; someone had drawn him in. She opened her eyes that had been squeezed shut, looking around frantically for his form in the thick black of the woods._

_“Lillian, where are you?” he called out. “Lillian, come here! I have something for you.”_

_The sound of his voice was nauseating; he did not seek her to help. He had come for a different reason entirely. His words were filled with a delicate sweetness; an intricate balance of gut-churning wickedness that frightened her tangled spirit to the core._

_“NO!” she screamed, feeling the sound of it raw in her throat. So it seemed her voice had returned…yet her scream drew him closer; he had found her where she lay._

_Suddenly, the wall of trees with eyes opened up like a gate; like the red sea that parted for the prophet. A poorly drawn version of her father crawled through, and although not a single hair lay out of place on his head, his eyes had changed; they were scarlet, like the blood from the boy’s calf at the marketplace; like the blood that had dribbled from Magnus’s muzzle…_

_“Lillian,” he whispered, kneeling down in the dirt where she lay pinned by the branches._

_“Lillian! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you…I want to give you a gift. I want to help you!”_

_He held a single coal in his left hand, a coal glowing red as if freshly plucked from the hearth of a furnace. The coal was melting his flesh into strings that fell, rotting with the stinging stench of burning skin. Yet, he still held onto it as the flesh fell away, revealing pallid colored bones underneath._

_“Let me tell you a secret,” he whispered to her. His eyes were bleeding; he was crying, yet smiling…a smile that was pulled unnaturally taut across his face. “Listen, my child! I can fix you, I can fix everything. Wouldn’t you like that?”_

_He brought the coal closer to the edge of her cheek, and the heat from its surface radiated dangerously against her innocent flesh._

_“Lill, I can fix you! I can make you like your sister…I can make you symmetrical. Wouldn’t you like that? Then you could finally come home. Wouldn’t you love to have a whole face? Wouldn’t you?”_

_His eyes were deep vermillion, without any pupils, without seeing…yet somehow still taking her in, somehow sensing the fear that saturated within her small form._

_“The trees shall keep you still. It will only hurt for a moment, I promise! Don’t you trust your father?”_

_“YOU’RE NOT MY FATHER!” she screamed, attempting to thrash her legs, but it was of no use. She lay paralyzed, for the branches had overcome the entirety of her body, pressing her into the floor of the earth; a prisoner of her father’s whim._

_She began to whimper as he slowly brought the coal to the left side of her face; the perfect side, the unblemished skin; the part that resembled Marie…_

_“ERIK!” she wailed desperately. “Erik, come help me, please help…Erik…” her voice trailed off into a whisper of a sob._

_Her father smiled wider. “Erik isn’t here. Erik is gone.”_

_The skeletal hand brought the steaming coal closer to her face; any moment now it would press against her skin, branding the perfection, singeing the only porcelain reminder of her twin sister, her best friend; the other princess…_

_Then came another voice from the trees. It was far off, but booming; a thunderous symphony across the wasteland of charcoal forest that sniggered, that held her in chains, that bound her to the earth to be destroyed, to be branded…to match the purple side with a reddened burn…_

_The voice crashed across the sky, a bolt of lightning; silencing her father, dissolving the coal into ashes, and closing the eyes of the trees that scrutinized…_

_“Open your eyes.”_

_“Erik,” she breathed._

Her eyes burst open. She was in the coolness of her room, in the bed with the curtains made entirely out of moonlight. She was gasping for air suddenly, grabbing at her throat; for she still felt the sting of bark on the skin of her neck…

Marie’s blurry face appeared just inches above her own.

“Lill,” she whispered. She laid her head on Lillian’s chest, listening to the racing of her heart intently; and she wrapped her arms around her sister’s shivering body.

“Lill, I’ve been shaking you for what seemed like forever…you were talking…and you were kicking…and…you were crying. What happened? Where did you go that was so…frightening?”

Lillian reached out weakly, touching her sister’s face with a gentle and shaking hand. “Marie…I…I was…in a forest. Father was there. The trees they were… _alive_.”

“Wait, twin,” Marie sat up abruptly, laying a hand on the blistering hot skin of Lillian’s forehead.

“Let me bring you a cold rag. You’re warm, almost like you’re on fire.”

“Twin…I…I was, almost…” Lillian whispered, staring up into the void of the dark. Marie did not hear her sister’s last uttered words, as she had already hurried away toward the washroom. An abhorrent scent suddenly crept its way into Lillian’s’ nostrils; a mixture of warm sweat, salted tears and… _urine_. Lillian blinked, slowly looking down at the yellow smudge of a stain between her legs, soaking the pearl white of the mattress. In the midst of the night she had wet herself; and to make matters worse; she had been rolling around in a sizeable pool of her own liquid excretory.

She began to cry quietly, tears falling down her face like the blood droplets from the dream; the ones that had dripped down the cheeks of the demented depiction of her father…and his voice still rang in her head, and she could still see the dead flesh falling from his hand as he held onto the coal, ever so tightly…

Marie’s face appeared above her once more, a pale angelic heroine piercing the coolness of the night. She placed a cold wet cloth on Lillian’s forehead, stroking her sister’s hair with gentle fingers. “Now Lill,” she said softly, “Tell me what you saw. You said the forest was…alive?”

“Twin, I peed. I peed in the bed,” Lillian said tearfully, not bothering to wipe the tears as they came cascading down her cheeks. “I peed like a _little_ girl. Princesses don’t pee themselves in their beds.”

Marie looked down at the expansive stain on the mattress. She looked deep in thought, continuing to pull away the stringy damp curls that were stuck to Lillian’s face.

“We can fix it twin, no one will know! I will clean it up. And even princesses get scared sometimes. I get scared all the time! It’s okay, I promise.” Marie smiled a warm smile; a signal of comfort, of acceptance; of smooth and undying love.

Lillian laid motionless. She stared vacantly into the darkness as the images of her nightmare began to creep in, forming themselves in the shadowed corners of the room.

_The trees were alive. The trees had eyes…_

Marie’s urgent voice interrupted her inner consciousness. “Come on, Lill! Let’s go to the washroom. As you wash yourself, I can clean up the stain! I promise it will all be okay!” Marie tugged at her sister’s arm, willing her to come out of her thousand yard stare. Lillian slowly turned her head towards Marie, parting her lips with a single shuddering breath.

“Marie… _father_ was there. He was looking for me. He said…he said he had a present for me. It was a coal, in his hand. Burning away his skin. He was bleeding…from his eyes.”

Marie stared back at her, her expression horrified. “Twin,” she whispered. “It wasn’t real. _Papa_ would never…”

“No! He would, he would, I know he would! He would do something horrible. You didn’t see what I saw. You don’t believe me! You don’t understand!” Lillian sobbed hysterically, grasping her twin by the wrists rigidly. “You didn’t see. _You didn’t see!_ ”

“Okay, twin. I believe you, you know I do! I believe anything you say. Maybe he _would_ do something horrible. But right now, we have to wash you off…we don’t want Claudia to find the sheets like this! Once you wash, and I clean everything up…then we can talk about the dream. Because remember what Claudia said about dreams? They’re where we truly… _live_.”

Lillian shook her head, staring into her twin’s golden eyes; two glimmering coins in the shadows of the bedroom. “But if that’s true…then father wants to hurt me.”

Marie bit her lip. “Well I won’t let him, twin. I’ll…I’ll paint half my face purple so he hurts me instead of you!”

Lillian smiled sadly. “Did you know that you’re the other half of me? That you’re the other half of my heart?”

Her twin touched her on the wrist that still shook with nerves from the dream. “That’s why we were born together, twin. Don’t you see? We’re connected. And that’s always how it will be. Together, forever. The two princesses.”

Lillian’s face finally broke into a tiny smile. “Come with me to the washroom? I’m afraid. There’s darkness, everywhere…”

“Yes Lill, of course. We can find candles and matches and…don’t worry, everything will be okay, I promise!”

Lillian climbed out of the bed, standing in the blackness, shivering as she waited for her sister to hop down and take her hand. Marie grasped it gently through the dark, giving it a squeeze. “Twin,” she whispered. “Dear twin, everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

The two made their way out of the bedroom silently, creeping down the short hall toward the washroom.

Suddenly, Marie stopped dead in her tracks. Lillian froze, squeezing her sister’s hand even tighter. “What is it, twin?” she whispered fearfully.

“I hear something….people talking. Shhh, we need to get closer. Come on!” Marie tugged on her twin’s hand, and led her into the kitchen that was filled with a bright luminescent light of the moon. The two stood, frozen; listening intently…and this time, Lillian could hear it too. The voice was masculine; pleasant, smooth, and deep…although quite muffled from where they stood in the kitchen.

“That’s Erik’s voice! I know it,” Lillian whispered, suddenly excited. “Let’s go see where he is! He spoke to me in my dream…I heard his voice! He must have come for me – ”

Marie turned to her sister sharply. “Lill…I don’t think we’re supposed to know that he’s here…I…I think I hear… _maman’s_ voice too….”

Lillian tugged on Marie’s hand. “Why can’t we know if he’s here? And why would _maman_ be with Erik this late at night? Why wouldn’t she just…see him during the day?”

“I don’t know,” Marie replied softly. “But I think we should get closer and find out. If we go out by the garden, I bet we can hear better…”

“Twin! I don’t think we should eavesdrop…” Lillian began, but stopped as she remembered the man who had scolded them against eavesdropping. _Papa…_

_The trees had eyes._

She shook her head violently, pushing the nightmarish impressions from her mind. “Okay,” She whispered, her voice strained with uncertainty. “But can you lead the way? I can’t see very well.”

Marie nodded, leading her sister stealthily across the smooth wood of the kitchen floor; two mice that skittered about without a single sound. They had quickly forgotten about the stain on the bed, and the crinkled yellow spoil upon Lillian’s pale nightdress.

The girls moved to the back door leading out to the garden, but before Marie could reach out to open it, Lillian tugged her back by the hand.

“Wait,” she whispered. “I think we could see better through the window in the parlor. It’s sort of below _maman’s_ room!”

Marie nodded in agreement. “Good thinking, Princess Lill.”

Lillian smiled softly at her sister in the darkness. It seemed like when she was around, everything lit up like stars illuminating the darkness; and all fears seemed to melt away, and blood turned to mere droplets of summer rain. There, the two brave princesses stood together, a shield forged in fire, investigating two mysterious voices in the midst of a darkened world.

They slithered into the parlor, taking avid care to avoid Claudia’s perfect pile of fabrics that sat stacked on the back of an armchair. There was a single window that poured in tangled threads of moonlight, covered with wisps of silvery drapes. The twins got down on all fours, crawling across the plush multicolored rug to the threshold of the window. “You look first,” Marie whispered, and her twin nodded in agreement. “Okay, hoist me up!”

Lillian climbed up on Marie’s shoulders, her chin reaching the ledge of the window. She pulled back the sliver of drape slightly, and audibly gasped at what she saw through the windowpane.

Erik stood at the foot of the balcony, draped in a deep scarlet shirt. He was locked in an embrace with her mother, and they were… _touching lips_. Touching each other’s arms, stroking each other’s backs…Lillian watched intently, seeing her mother reach out to stroke the bareness of his chest…

“Twin…” was all she could utter.

“What?” Marie asked impatiently. “What do you see?”

“Let…let me down. You have to see it. I don’t know what it means.”

Lillian slid down from her sister’s shoulders. “Quick, Marie! Quick…you have to see!”

Marie climbed up anxiously, excitedly. She peered through the shade of the window, and let out a loud gasp. “What…what…are…”

“They’re touching lips, twin! I’ve never seen _Papa_ and _maman_ do that. Not ever,” Lillian rambled exuberantly.

Marie jumped down from her sister’s shoulders quite nimbly. Her eyes were wide, in shock of the secret they had uncovered in the dead of the night. “Maman…loves….Erik?” she asked her twin incredulously.

“She has to! Why would she be doing _that_ if she didn’t?” Lillian whispered wildly.

“But…what about… _Papa_? Doesn’t she love him too?” Marie’s eyes searched her sister’s face desperately for a feasible explanation. “Doesn’t she?”

“Maybe not,” Lillian replied. “Maybe that’s why we left home. Why do you think _Papa_ stayed behind?”

Marie looked uncomfortable. “Twin, I don’t think we were supposed to see that. I don’t feel good about it. Do we tell _maman_ that we saw?”

“No, I don’t think we should. But come on, let’s go to the washroom. I peed, remember? We can talk about it once we clean everything up. Let’s hurry!”

The two girls scurried away from the window, moving deftly across the small parlor and turning the corner to enter the washroom. Lillian stripped off the putrid yellow stained nightgown, dipping a nearby cloth into a wide bowl of water that Claudia kept for hand washing. She began to scrub herself furiously with the cloth along with a lilac scented bar of soap, while Marie sat on a wooden stool in a daze.

“ _Maman_ loves Erik,” Lillian whispered triumphantly. “She must! She touched lips with him and…and felt him all over!”

“It was all so…romantic,” Marie said dreamily. “He held her close, like a damsel in distress…in his big strong arms…”

“Like he had just saved her from a monster in the woods,” Lillian finished. She smiled widely, as the rotting nightmare had seemingly been replaced with something unfathomable, something better than she could have ever imagined.

The voice in her dream.

_“Open your eyes.”_

It had been Erik’s voice. He had saved her from the faces of the trees; the trees that had eyes that watched, whose faces stretched with smiles too wide for the width of their trunks. He had rescued her from the boys in the marketplace. He had kissed her on the forehead, he had swung her atop his powerful shoulders simply to give her a glimpse of where the sky met the earth.

Lillian pulled a fresh nightgown over her head, grabbing her sister by the hand. “My wish came true, twin! I wished for Erik to be our _Papa_. And he was there, somewhere, in my dream. He told me to open my eyes.”

Marie sighed. “Come on, Lill, let’s go back to bed…we can cover the stain up with a blanket and clean it tomorrow. I promise, no one will find out. We can lay together and talk about your dream. Or, we can talk about…Erik and _maman_ …”

“Yes!” Lillian squealed. The two quickly arranged the washroom to how it had been before; Claudia would take note of anything that stood out of place in the morning. The twins scampered back to their bedroom, pulling a spare knitted blanket over the yellow stain on the mattress. They laid down together, drawing their little dolls close, facing one another beneath the warmth and comfort of the blankets.

“Why did they touch lips? What does that mean?” Marie asked thoughtfully. “Does it mean _maman_ loves him?”

Lillian sighed. “I hope so. Because I love him! He saved me in the marketplace…and he saved me in my dream. Whenever I hear his voice…I feel full with happiness. I feel like I’m safe…from everything.”

“Me too,” Marie whispered. “But he didn’t save me…do you think he loves me as much as you?”

Lillian touched her sister’s face in the dark. “He loves us both, twin. How could he not? We are connected, just like you said!”

“Connected,” Marie murmured, her eyes fluttering shut. “Always…”

Soon, the whispers faded from their lips; and two princesses drifted off into sleep, softly cuddled into one another. Just as their mother, who lay curled in her bed in the room above theirs, settled into a dreamless sleep; a smile etched onto her face that was raw with kisses, marked with the brush of his hand…and the gentle promise he had given that kept her heart beating fervently, that kept her breathing, alive, and breathless…emancipated from the past. For the past no longer existed; there was only him.

_For I shall see you tomorrow in the bright light of day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well……? What is everybody thinking and feeling? I must know :)


	19. Blood in the water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update to make up for my last late update. Thank you to all of my amazing readers; all of you (even the lurkers)…are truly amazing. Thank you for falling in love with this work, over and over. As always, reviews are strongly appreciated :)

The envelope stared up at him from where it lay in the dirt. Erik stood, still panting from his run through the forest; from the elation that had been goading his spirit through the twisted woods, all the way to the threshold of the back door. He had forgotten about the letter completely, yet there it lay; its seal shining up at him, blinding him, forging a great rut between himself and his doorway. The letter…what could she have written? He didn’t want to know. He had tossed it carelessly, as if it didn’t matter. But now, as it still lay cradled in the earth, he wondered, agitated; what could Anias possibly ask of him yet?

What could she take from him still?

He bent down slowly, snatching the envelope from the ground. Magnus whined, nudging him in the back of his leg; urging him perhaps to drop it. To rip it into a thousand shreds, to stop her words from entering his mind, his heart…but he held it firmly.

“I will read it, old friend. It is only fair, to read a letter one has sent. You disapprove, I see,” Erik smiled tightly, looking down at his shadow of a beast. Magnus stared back with wise eyes, filled with warning, with caution… _there is nothing in that letter but pain, dear master._

The night had been more than he had ever expected it could be. Yet, he had yearned for Christine’s touch every moment; he had longed for her hands to stroke _more_ than the scar that lay branded upon his chest. He had ached for her hands to run through the dark of his hair, to tenderly wipe away his tears… _and she had._

She had accepted him as a killer.

Something he, himself, had not even been able to accept. He thought of it as a dissonant memory; a long dream, perhaps, and nothing more. But she had made it real.

She had kissed him. She had laid her delicate parts along his; she had forged herself into him. Christine, the Vicomtesse.

He grimaced at the thought of her having a husband, somewhere back in Paris. Although her words had been truthful, sweet to the taste, and promising; his heart surged with envy over this man who had given her children…who had been able to love her for years.

Yet she had left Paris, looking for something more; yearning, as he had, since Anias had left him fragmented and shattered. Perhaps, there had been no hope left within him. Perhaps there had just been acceptance; that the woman he loved did not love him back, and there was no more love left, for him. God was punishing him at last, for all the years of sin spent with blood on his hands, on his face…for all the years slitting throats for the sake of a mother who had stifled her son’s spirit with a fireplace.

And it still burned.

What was Christine in his life? A redemption of sorts, a gift from God, a promise? A purity, a love that was boundless, uncontrollable…yet _why_ did he suffer still?

He sighed deeply, clutching the letter in one hand as he let himself in through the door. Magnus bounded in after him, exuberant to finally be home. He laid himself down immediately on the expanse of blood red carpet that covered the parlor floor. Erik settled himself in a dark leather armchair after lighting a lamp, pausing with the letter in his trembling hands. Magnus lay on his side, eyes fluttering shut, near where Erik had rested his feet. He smiled to himself, watching the dog sleepily drift off. “Sleep well, little king,” he murmured.

He ripped open the envelope with a single finger, and slowly unfolded it to reveal the familiar handwriting of the Duchess. His heart fluttered over seeing his own name written by her hand, and he immediately cursed its fluttering; he urged it to deafen its beating, to kill the droplet of feeling that had dribbled its way into his mind.

His eyes flickered over the contents of the letter. He read it once, twice, and a third time…pausing for a moment at each time, when the letter had come to a close...just to read the name she had signed it with:

_Aphrodite._

His blood coursed with hatred, with anger, with spite…anything bitter and foul and evil; anything that cursed, that soured, that spoiled…it spiked into his veins like a drug injection from a filthy needle.

“How fucking _dare_ she ask this of me,” he muttered to himself, ripping the letter in half. Immediately, he regretted it. Yet he was torn, much like the letter. How could she ask this of him…friendship? Kinship? No… _this_ was too low, even for her. Certainly too _fucking_ low.

His rage began to rise, uncontrollably so. His fingers twitched for something, anything to hurt, to shred, to burn; just as he had been burned, so many years ago…

He stood up, shoving his armchair violently on its side. _No_ , it wasn’t enough. It simply wasn’t filling the void _she_ had drudged up. He walked toward the northern wall, where a design he had worked on years ago hung proudly; he tore it from its home, from its perfectly measured display. He ripped at the parchment fiercely until he was satisfied with the scraps that lay in wretched piles around him… _no_. Still not enough.

Erik screamed, pounding his hands against the wall. He roared and bared his teeth to utterly no one; for the house was dark and still. Magnus’s head rose with ears flattened, watching his master with pure horror.

“Magnus!” he cried mockingly as he made his way to the next wall. “Magnus, remember when I protected _her_ from that _mongrel_ of a Duke? Remember how _beautiful_ royalty can be? Until you pull the _fucking_ rug out from its abhorrent underside!”

Magnus laid silently as his master went about the parlor in a rage, ripping everything from its handsome walls; drapes from the windows, designs and paintings from their perfectly placed positions. He threw them all forcibly onto the carpet, wrenching and ripping, destroying everything within reach with his mighty hands. “Isn’t it funny, little king? Isn’t is so… _fucking_ …funny?” he spat, kicking the pile of shredded designs.

A floor length mirror stood amongst the storm; it was positioned in the corner on the other side of the parlor. Erik walked toward it slowly, needing to _see_ ; dying to face the demon that writhed inside of him.

The mirror displayed a man that wasn’t him. The man had bloodied fists from slamming the walls; cuts in his hands from breaking ornate frames into dust. He tore off his silken shirt; scarlet, of course. Didn’t he love blood? Didn’t he simply… _live_ for it?

He stared at himself, bare-chested in the mirror, heaving breaths as if he were drowning. There it was, and it would never disappear; the brand underneath his left pectoral. It was crowned by scrapes and scars, some deeper than others…but it lay raised on his flesh nonetheless; a reminder of what he had been, of who he would always be…

Some days he pretended the memory didn’t exist. That they never held him down, pressing a hot iron to his ribs, whispering in his ears… _You are a changed man, my friend. Forever._

The mark of the _gewinnsüchtig._ The mark of a killer. The ugly pink brand of a man who trained for months, only to murder for money; to cover himself in another’s blood, to revel in the deaths of thousands of nameless men. He could still feel the iron touching his skin; he could still feel them holding him down, pressing his form into the earth that seethed, that cried out…and somewhere, his mother must have been laughing. Somewhere, she had been screaming with joy. For he was being branded once more.

He turned away from the mirror. He would not break it; no, he needed to see himself. He needed to see the monster that sneered from underneath. Could anyone love him seeing _this_ , knowing this? Could anyone see the blood in his eyes…could Christine?

She hadn’t known the half of it. She had accepted his words, of course, purely out of naivety…yet she hadn’t seen him slice a man’s ribcage open, simply for the game of it, for the fun of it; the adrenaline of the chase, and the simplicity within the catch…

He fell down onto his knees. “Little king…” he whispered, tears blurring the edges of his vision. “Please…come…here…”

Magnus obeyed, slowly. He trotted over to his master who was so easily unfurled; whose temper was like the sea that tossed and turned; unpredictable in its mystified nature. Magnus sat in front of his master, who had begun to sob into his bloodied hands, smearing streaks of red upon his face.

Erik tore his hands away from his face, suddenly. “How can you love me?” he cried, tearing at his hair, staring at the dog. “How could you love me for so many years? Do you not know that I stroke you with same hand that has innocent blood in its depths? The brand of a murderer? _HOW_?”

Magnus whined softly. He placed his head on Erik’s knee, looking up at him with dark, soft eyes. _I will always love you._

Erik fell to the ground, holding the beast around the neck in a haphazard embrace. He sobbed into Magnus’s soft, inky fur; folding into him like a child might fall into a motherly caress.

They laid there, on the ground, in the midst of the parlor that was destroyed; save for the mirror in the corner. Erik’s sobbing slowly began to subside, and he lifted his head up; his dark hair falling in tendrils, mussed and out of place.

“She cut it out, Magnus. She cut the baby out. How could she talk of friendship? _How_? She never wanted to bear my child. She never wanted another part of me. Never. And this letter…this…this _olive branch_? It is no olive branch. It’s a brand, little king…a stinging upon my very flesh. A reminder of what she did. Why can’t she just leave me alone? Can she not let me heal from what’s been done?”

Magnus let out a long sigh. He stared into Erik’s eyes lovingly, edging closer to him so that maybe, his warmth might flow into his master. So that maybe somehow, he could take away the crying and the pain, as he always had.

Erik wiped his eyes with his shirt that lay pooled on the floor. Another sign of blood. He wiped his hands in the folds of silk, soiling its layers of riches, of wealth, of feigned beauty…

“She _thinks_ , after everything…we could be friends, like before? And that’s it, isn’t it? She cut _my_ child out of her. She got rid of it! I saw the glow in her face, in her eyes…she…she told me! She told me she was…happy…and then…her glow disappeared. It was no miscarry, that I am certain of. She got rid of _my_ child, Magnus!”

He began to sob again. He cried for a long time, there on the floor, holding his beast in his arms. He cried for the past; for the child that was lost, for the woman that could never bear it, that could never love it, or even worse, love him…

He cried for his mother. He cried for the brand on his side, for the pain it would inflict upon others for years to come. He sobbed for the men that lay dead at his hands; he mourned for the blood he had soaked in. That he had laughed in. That he had smeared upon his flesh; a heathen drunk on the lust of a violent façade.

And God watched over the two from where they lay, in the ruins of the blood red parlor. Two hearts that were utterly broken; one, from a mother that had betrayed, and the other…from seeing his friend in great pain. Each one longed for the other to be happy. And for a moment, in the deep of the night, there was nothing but brokenness; and the dog lay in his arms, willing his love to flow out into the air, and into the man he loved with the entirety of his being. And he didn’t understand the words, but he understood how to love. And he would love this man for a lifetime. This was his purpose, God had whispered in his ear; had made it so.

To love this man with unadulterated freedom; to love him until his wounds had healed, to love until his heart perhaps burst open.

And he would change the course of this man’s life.

For pure love could not be bought. It was heavenly, angelic, perfect in all ways, in all forms.

And in the midst of the ruins, the letter lay, ripped in two…just like the heart of Erik, stained and scarred and bleeding. Yet as Erik wept, as he bled…Magnus bled with him.

_“And you always come to pick up the pieces, little king.”_

_And I always will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Long sigh* …Thoughts? Emotions? Feelings? Tell me all :)


	20. Blutswolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to all of my amazing readers (lurkers, I could never forget about you…) I hope you all enjoy this next chapter. Reviews are always appreciated.

The morning light crawled in through the naked windows, falling across his aching form that lay on the carpet. He had fallen asleep in the midst of his own destruction, with arms still wrapped desperately around his treasured beast. Erik opened his eyes to the dimness of the light, his head swarming with vile images from the night before.

He slowly sat up, littered in his own filth; his very own demise…for the wreckage was even more catastrophic within the clarity of the morning light. Piles of wooden frames lay in splinters, and the drapes intertwined raggedly amongst the rubble; dark pieces of fabric that seemed to stain the floor. Erik sighed as Magnus stirred, turning slowly to glance at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was crusted with blood, drying in thick dark tendrils that fell over the shaved parts near his ears. His blue eyes were bloodshot, filled to the brim with spidery red veins that pulsated with every breath he sucked through throbbing lungs.

The left side of his face had grown a slight black stubble, and he rubbed a hand against it; displeased at its lack of symmetry. Erik measured the sunbeams as they crossed the floor; he would have to be at the site, very soon. There wasn’t much time…he would clean himself up to look decent, for the promise he had made to Christine still resounded in his ears. She would most certainly come to the site today. And he would not show up as a fragment of a man; he would show as commanding and powerful as he needed to be, even if that meant donning an emotional mask for the day. He would do it; he _must_ do it.

Yet, there was one more task he needed to complete. A letter. A very important letter needed to be written before he left.

He stood up hastily, making his way to the washroom that branched off from the bloodied parlor. He drew water into the tub, pulling the marble tap with a brisk twist of his hand. The water poured into the sultry bronze basin, steaming with the promise of cleansing him, of changing him…

Erik stripped off the remaining filth of his breeches and settled into the water. He submerged himself completely; scrubbing away the atrocities that had dried in his hair, on his face, and on the ridges of his knuckles. The scorching water seared against the grazes on his hands, yet he did not grimace; he deserved this pain, for he had done it himself. He had pounded the flesh until it bled pink and raw; he had marked himself all over again.

Erik numbly drained the reddened bathwater and dried himself, dressing swiftly for the day. He shaved the stubble from the unmarred side of his face and greased back his hair with ease, ensuring that not a single hair stood out of place.

 _His hands._ His hands were a wreck, a crusted and scabbed-up abomination. He carefully cleaned the self-inflicted wounds, wrapping his knuckles tightly with clean white linen. It would have to do for today.

Now, for the letter.

His work desk was scattered with shreds of darkened drapes and slivers of thick designs; parchment that curled with fractured equations written meticulously in ink. Erik brushed the table clean with a single sweep of his forearm, reaching for the inkwell that had toppled over. A bit of dark liquid still sat in the bottom, and he placed it right side up upon the expansive oak surface. He wrenched open a side drawer within the table, pulling a piece of blank parchment from its hidden depths. He stared at the pale page in front of him, wondering if he could even write the words. If his shaking hands could even begin to describe the feeling of drowning; the feeling of living a nightmare that he wished desperately to forget. Yet, there was only one person who would understand. Only one.

He began to write; gradually, at first, but suddenly, the words began to pour out…a river of flesh and blood condensed into sentences, into inky words that blemished the parchment’s flawless surface…

_Ryker von Kantzow,_

_I write to you from a place of pain. A place that I fear, cannot be healed. You were with me, through all the drunken rage, the bloodshed, the deaths that were sold. You saw my laughter, you saw my wickedness. You always had accepted me, as a brother might do. As you used to say to me, “what’s done, is done.” But the question I ask of you, is this; can what’s done be undone? Can the past be erased somehow, can it disappear from my heart?_

_I fear you are the only one who may understand. I still dwell in Lourmarin, and if you would be willing to make the journey out to see me, I would be deeply humbled and thankful._

_Brother, I call upon you. Our brands are the same, as are we, for what we have witnessed together so many years ago. I am hoping you will answer my call, for I would not write to you if I could rewrite the past myself._

_Only you can do that._

_Your brother, always,_

_Blutswolf._

He sighed, staring down at the finished product. He did not allow his eyes to re-read the words, for he was ashamed of them…and most of all, he dreaded the utterance of the name he had signed with. It was the name carved into the blade of the silver sword that lay tucked away in the attic; the name that others used to whisper fearfully in the streets. And perhaps they _still_ breathed the name in his passing; a curse in the air, a sickness that unfurled into the sky with it’s reputation that seethed, that rolled off a man’s lips with a sickening stench of curdled and murderous eyes…

_Blutswolf._

Blood-wolf.

Erik shook his head, running a bandaged hand through his hair.

What man could rewrite the past; what man could undo what had already been done?

“For who…can say?” he murmured, thinking of Christine, suddenly. Her gentle eyes that stole from him, yet filled him. Could she understand, one day? Could she know all of him, every inch of him – and still look at him the same? Could she love him?

Ryker would know.

He folded up the letter, sliding it into an envelope. He clutched it to his side as he stood up, noting the sunbeams and their precise positions that fell in torrents across the scarlet carpet.

He was late.

**…**

Christine fled down the stairs to the kitchen in a flurry of exhilaration; for the morning had finally come. She had brushed her curls out until they fell into soft folds of mahogany, and had donned a light blue day-dress that Claudia had crafted. It was cinched at the waist, complementing her hourglass figure; and although she was still quite thin, she felt quite elegant in the dress. It had no corset to bind her ribcage, just a simple bow tied in the middle of the cinch; a small, pearl colored ribbon.

She burst into the kitchen where Claudia sat in her usual spot, sipping coffee and studying a dress design that was laid out in front of her. She looked up, startled at Christine’s sophisticated appearance so early in the morning.

“My dear!” she exclaimed, smiling in awe of the lovely young woman who stood before her. “You look absolutely stunning! Why, I will have to have you start modeling all of my dresses!” Claudia laughed, shaking her head. “And what is the occasion? Are you planning to go out in town with the girls?”

Christine twirled in a circle, coming to a halt at the end of the long table. “I thought we would visit Erik’s site today; the girls have been dying to see him.”

Claudia raised her eyebrows curiously. “I myself have never been to one of his sites…he is most, well, _secretive_ about his projects. He told you of its whereabouts? And…when was this, my dear?”

Christine’s heart skipped a beat, realizing the error of her words immediately. “He…well…I…” she stuttered, averting her eyes from Claudia’s.

Claudia looked deeply at her with furrowed eyebrows. “Christine…you do not have to hide anything from me. You know that, don’t you? And if there is something you need to tell me…”

“He told me of it in the garden, the night of our supper! Oh, I merely forgot to mention it, Claudia.” Christine interrupted hastily, wringing her hands behind her back. She forced a smile, and sat down at the table. “Really, I think the twins would love it!”

“Hmm,” Claudia eyed her for a moment, then drew her eyes back to the design on the table. “Well, sadly I can’t accompany you three today; there is simply too much sewing to be done. I’ve got over fifteen pieces to finish by the end of this week, my dear.”

Christine nodded slowly. “I do wish you could come with. But perhaps I could help? I haven’t sewed in years, but I could - ”

“Nonsense, my dear, nonsense! You’ll do no such thing. Besides, the dresses I make are quite complicated. I must work on them alone, I’m afraid. But I do appreciate your offer, sweet girl,” she smiled warmly. “The twins are in the washroom, already tidying up for the day; I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic to know of your plans with Erik.”

“Yes…” Christine murmured, offhandedly. “Claudia? I do realize one thing, now…he…he did not disclose the location.”

Claudia’s eyebrows shot up again. “Oh? Well did you ask him where it was, dear?”

“I…I…got distracted, I suppose. You don’t happen to know where, do you?”

Claudia drummed her fingers upon the surface of the table. “No, I don’t, darling…but I’m sure if you rode into town and asked around, you should be able to locate it. It’s probably the largest architecture site in _Lourmarin_ , I am sure. Erik has a soft spot for grandeur.”

Christine nodded, smiling at Claudia. “Thank you so much, Claudia. I will find it, I’m sure!”

After all, how many architecture sites could there possibly be in the quaint city of _Lourmarin_?

**…**

About an hour later, once the twins had dressed and eaten their breakfast of crisp bread and fruit, the three departed upon Viktor from the hidden grove of the cottage. Lillian rode in front of Christine while Marie gripped her mother’s waist from the back.

“I can’t believe we are going to see Erik _building_ things…I wonder what he is making?” Lillian gushed excitedly. “ _Maman_ , how are we going to find out where he is?”

Christine spurred Viktor a bit faster; they were trotting through the forest now, where the sun streamed in like golden wisps of smoke through a canopy of green.

“He was a bit secretive in his instructions, dear girls…so we will have to locate him ourselves! It will be an adventure…for we shall search for our knight until we find him!”

“Our knight,” Lillian repeated. “So you think he’s a knight, too, _maman_?”

Christine paused, her heart fluttering in her chest. “Well, of course I do. Who wouldn’t, my darling angels?”

The twins giggled as the wind gently swept thick curls away from their tiny faces. They did not ask their mother _when_ she had gotten the invitation; for they had both seen through the window; their knight embracing her, touching lips with her, and both knew that he had whispered something delicately into her ear. An invitation, perhaps…

Viktor, upon swift legs that were steely and black like the night, arrived rather quickly to the edge of the village. He cantered directly to the spot Claudia had seemingly conditioned into him; the same shaded area between two buildings with the long tin water trough. Christine slid off of the saddle clumsily; for her heart was throbbing, bursting to see him…to see his form, his promise, in the bright light of the day.

She helped Marie down first, but Lillian leapt off of the saddle, landing gently on her feet.

“Lillian!” Christine exclaimed, disapproving as she placed delicate hands on her hips. “You could have hurt yourself!”

“Maman, you don’t have to worry about me! I’m nimble as can be,” Lillian sang, stretching her arms out into the air dramatically. Marie giggled at her sister.

“There will be no more of that, Lill. You could lose your balance and fall.”

“But _maman_!”

Christine shook her head. “My dear, your Queen has spoken.”

Lillian looked at Marie for help, then hung her head slightly. “Okay, I won’t do it anymore.”

“How are we going to find Erik?” Marie blurted, desperate to change the subject off of her sister’s scolding.

“We shall go into the marketplace and ask,” Christine answered. “And remember, hands _will_ stay linked at all times. If our throng is broken, yell out for me. That way none of us will lose each other in the crowds.”

The twins nodded excitedly. “We promise, we promise!”

Making their way through the hordes of people proved harder without the raging bull of Claudia, who had simply shoved her way through. Christine was having a difficult time edging her way through the bustle and noise of the masses, but finally managed to break through to a middle-aged merchant who stood behind a fruit stand.

“Monsieur,” she cleared her throat, almost having to shout over the commotion of the morning chaos. “I am looking for the architecture site of Monsieur Erik Dietrich, would you happen to know where it is?”

The man threw back his burly head and laughed. “Oh, I know the one, Mademoiselle! He’s quite famous…I heard he fucked the Duchess while her husband lay sleeping!” the man chortled again. Christine’s eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open. _Duchess?_

The man stared at Christine’s horrified reaction, now taking note of the two children beside her. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, looking slightly red in the face.

“I apologize, I didn’t realize there were…little ones, Mademoiselle. The site is quite large; if you follow this road for about a mile or so, you will see it on the left hand side. Really, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” she murmured, still in a slight daze from his brazen words. Was this the woman he had spoken of? He had said she was royalty…but he never mentioned…

_While her husband lay sleeping!_

The merchant’s coarse words echoed in her head. She was pulled swiftly back to reality when Marie tugged on her hand.

“ _Maman_? Are you okay?”

Christine forced a smile as she looked down at both of her daughters. “Yes, my princesses, everything is fine. Come, let’s go find the site. We have directions, now.” She pulled them away from the fruit stand; away from the burly man with the soiled words. The three submerged themselves into the crowd once more.

Christine led the twins through the market and continued down the road as the man had instructed. She tried to keep the words that had been spoken out of her mind, but they prickled at her; a thorn in her side.

They continued along until the disorder of the marketplace thinned, leaving only small groups of people that walked about the streets. Christine led the twins along the street until the sun rose high in the sky; mid morning, and soon enough, her feet began aching from the distance of the trek.

Finally, in the distance, she saw the site. It _was_ truly magnificent, and rang true to Claudia’s words: _Erik has a soft spot for grandeur._ Immense stone columns rose high into the atmosphere like ornate towers, and wooden beams were stacked and built with order and precision. As they drew closer, she saw _him_ standing there with his hands on his hips. Even at the sight of him from a distance, her heart dropped into her stomach. He was…absolutely dashing.

He wore brown breeches with black leather straps around his waist and thighs; all seeming to tighten the material against his legs. His shirt was dark green; a long-sleeved linen that was tucked neatly into his trousers. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, as usual…revealing his thickly muscled forearms, covered in pink and white scarring.

Before she knew what she was doing, she began to run to him. She abandoned the thoughts stewing in her mind, she let go of the doubt that had slithered its way into her heart.

He was here. In the light of day.

The twins rushed alongside their mother, and Lillian let out a shriek as they neared his tall figure. “Erik!”

He whirled around just as Lillian hugged him around the waist. Marie ran up to him too, but waited patiently on the side; waiting for him to beckon her for an embrace as well.

“Erik,” Christine breathed as she slowed to a stop, her heart thudding in the confines of her throat. He met her eyes, and immediately she sensed something within him was not quite right. His eyes were clouded, far away; terribly swollen and red. He had been crying.

Erik stared at her, slowly smiling as he let go of Lillian. “Come here, little rose,” he murmured to Marie, and she leapt impatiently into his arms, grabbing him tightly. “I thought you’d never ask!” she whispered into the fabric of his shirt. Erik stroked the back of her head, still staring at Christine. The moment seemed frozen in time; Christine itched to run into his arms, just as her daughters had. She longed to kiss him in front of all of his workers that were covered in dust, in the midst of this luxurious monument he had designed – but she could not.

Her lips twitched with uncertainty, and her eyes slowly drifted to his hands that soothed the back of her daughter’s curls. His knuckles were tightly bandaged, and there were tiny spots of blood leaking through the clean white surface.

_What had happened last night?_

She looked back up into his eyes, willing his soul to speak, to say something, anything…but he merely stood and stared at her. His eyes were filled with unbearable sadness, and as she looked further, she could see something infinitely stranger; shame. Deep shame that lay dark and brooding; a smear of charcoal across an unfinished canvas.

Shame from his past?

Shame from what he had told her?

And there she stood, staring into his eyes as he stared back at her. She suddenly was no longer standing; she was dreaming…for he stood in front of her, broken again; this man who had stroked the side of her jaw, who had nibbled at her earlobe, who had whispered his secret to her in a lavender field; he was here.

He was with her, in the light of the morning.

And she would touch his bandages, and she would stroke his cheek…

She would make everything all right again, no matter what it took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t kill me for the cliffhanger :) Well…? Feelings, emotions, thoughts?


	21. Divine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, ‘This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!’ Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, ‘Never have I heard anything more divine’?” – Friedrich Nietzsche

There had to be a painting, somewhere, perhaps in another world of this precise moment. Of this moment where Erik stood, insolently rooted to the spot; a tree that had sprouted roots into the depths of clay and dust. She could see the horror within his eyes; he could sense it, no…he could feel it. Not simply a passing or fleeting glance, but a direct opening into the depths of his soul. She could see it clearly. And if the daylight had not shown its face, if he had stood in complete darkness; Christine still would have seen the glimmer of melancholy that was swinging like a pendulum between the strings of his heart.

Her eyes had dropped to his hands rather quickly; she had seen the tight wrappings, the nightmarish white against the skin of his hands. She had looked back up then, but it was more than a look; she was seeing him, all of him. And she still stood in front of him as she had in the field; fiercely, without pity or fear in her eyes. She stood with a simple glow of something infinitely more beautiful; a feeling he could not quite place or describe. It was perhaps the feeling of being home, when the evening light had settled in, and he was alone, and the fire was blazing in the hearth; and Magnus lay at his feet…

But now, home smelled different to him in this moment. Was she there now, in the parlor of his mind? Would she clean up the shattered remains of the shredded designs; could she look past the terrors of the night that screamed from within his very spirit?

Home now smelled of a lavender field. It smelled of her; of her warmth, of her embrace in the cool night air. And here she stood in front of him, misplaced within the commotion of the workers that surrounded them. And she had smiled at him. And then she stepped forward, grabbing him suddenly into a tightly bound embrace.

“Erik,” she whispered in his ear. He almost broke down then, in front his workers, in front of the twins who were eagerly calling out Magnus’s name, over and over. He bit his bottom lip to keep the tears from rising up, and squeezed her arms tightly to let her know…

_Something happened. I have done something terrible._

Christine pulled back from their embrace slowly, drinking in the entirety of the emotions that betrayed the hardness in his eyes. She grasped his hand softly, for it was tender and bandaged; but she gave it a little squeeze. It was a symbol, their symbol; for travelling through the dark forest path.

_I am here, with you._

He took a deep breath. She would understand. Her eyes spoke this truth into the atmosphere, as plain and simple as rain fell from the sky during a storm. She was here, holding his bandaged hand lightly. She was redemption, she was salvation; she was simplicity, she was divine. Did God give him this, after all that had been done? Did even demons deserve forgiveness?

“Erik!” Lillian’s joyous song of a voice rang out, grasping him from his thoughts of God, of Christine; of darkness and redemption. He released Christine’s hand carefully, but not before returning her gentle squeeze from his wrapped up hand. He saw the creases of her mouth curve into a delicate smile.

Erik knelt down in the dust, planting his large hands on his hips. “What can I do for my angels today? Would you like to walk around the site?” his voice was playful now, with all sense of sorrow gone from his eyes.

Lillian and Marie jumped up and down, ecstatic from his gentle invitation. “Yes, we want to see what you are building!” Marie exclaimed, spreading her arms wide like a tiny sparrow about to take flight.

“A knight that builds things,” Lillian answered her sister thoughtfully. “Do knights always build things? Is that…your job as a knight? Besides killing monsters,” she giggled. Erik raised his eyebrows; one perfectly dark arc and the other, pink with overlapping scars. “A knight can do many things, my princesses. Architecture is simply something we must all learn; it is a…prerequisite to knighthood, I suppose you could say.”

The twins stood with mouths agape, eager to have uncovered another secret about their mysterious protector. Erik threw back his head and laughed; a laugh that was so deep and melodious that Christine’s heart fluttered violently. She smiled, smoothing her hands on her skirts to keep the continuous sweat from dripping down her palms.

Erik stood up; a statuesque man in his element. His knees were covered in dribbles of earth, and his raven hair was sprinkled with tiny pinches of dust. “Come, I shall show you the entirety of it. Keep in mind, it is not yet complete. So I beg of you, do not judge my work until it is completed,” he said with a wry smile, flashing his teeth to Christine. She blushed profusely, and grabbed the twins by their hands.

“Erik, can I ride on your shoulders this time?” Marie blurted, tugging at her frock anxiously. “Lill got to at the marketplace, and…well, I want to see the tops of everything too!”

Erik turned dramatically and kneeled on the ground, right in front of the little girl who awaited his response apprehensively. “But of course, little rose. It is my honor,” he said quietly, through a smile so wide his cheeks dimpled. And again, as if it were a trick of the eyes, or perhaps by magic; he swept her up in one Herculean movement. And there she sat atop his shoulders, her pale hands resting in the dark of his hair.

“Your hair is really soft!” Marie declared, patting its surface with her hands. “Just like a raven’s feather!”

“Twin, you’ve never touched a raven’s feather! How would you know?” Lillian laughed from below, swinging her mother’s hand back and forth.

Marie looked thoughtful, as if the height from Erik’s shoulders had suddenly given her a striking and profound wisdom. “I have in a dream, once,” she replied. “Erik, does that count?”

He tugged on one of her legs teasingly. “Perhaps, little one. For our dreams are sometimes more real than the life that we live. But not always,” he added hastily, blinking away dreams he had dreamt, yet had wished desperately to disappear. Christine noted his expression and sighed. She would speak to him later, in private. She would find a way to unravel the bandages; to unravel him, perhaps if only to soothe the wounds that lay underneath.

The four journeyed around the edges of the building that was in the midst of being born; but as for now, it looked like a half sketched drawing on a filled in canvas. Erik explained each intricacy as they made several stops, nodding to the workers that were covered in dirt and clay. Magnus had come bounding up when they were halfway around the perimeter of the site, his black fur peppered with gray and white sand. Lillian stopped to hug the dog tightly, and Christine knelt down to stroke him between his ears. His nub of a tail wagged ferociously in the earth as he greeted them.

Christine was listening intently to Erik’s descriptions of each structure; the idea that one structure built off another; that one could not exist without its counterpart being in place. Suddenly she touched him on the arm, looking deeper into the vaults where the workers chipped away at the earth. “Erik…what is this building to be, in the end?”

He turned to her slowly, as if choosing his next words quite carefully. “It is to be a chapel.”

“How beautiful, Erik. How simply…divine,” Christine murmured. “I cannot wait to see its finished product.”

“It will take months to complete, perhaps longer,” he replied. He looked into her eyes then, deeply, as if forging the unbreakable bond between the two of them with his insatiable and hungry eyes. “You…you will still be here, will you not?”

“Yes,” she answered tersely. “We all will. And I would love to get a full tour of the interior…that is, once it’s completed.”

“Erik?” Marie asked suddenly. “Do you believe in God?”

His body tightened up, and his mouth formed a thin line. “Yes, little rose, I do.”

Lillian bobbed alongside Erik, pulling her mother along with her. “Do you believe in Angels? _Maman_ says they’re like warriors; with faces like lightning! Do you think that’s true?”

“Hmm,” Erik answered thoughtfully – he might have ran a hand through his hair, but Marie sat on his shoulders, her tiny hands resting in the spot he so anxiously wished to push at, to pull at. He resisted the urge silently. “I do. I have read somewhere that they are fearful to behold.”

“What do you mean fearful? That they’re scary to see?” Marie asked incredulously, folding her small fingers on the top of his head.

“Yes,” Erik replied, continuing his stride through the bumpy perimeter of the site. “It is said that they are beings we cannot see – that we are not supposed to see. They live in a different place than us, but they only show themselves to us when absolutely necessary.”

“Like when?” Marie inquired, eyes wide and struck with a profound curiosity.

“When we need them,” Christine responded quietly. “They show themselves only when we need them the most. But they are always guiding us, watching us.”

Lillian turned to her mother excitedly. “ _Maman_ , have you ever seen one?”

Christine smiled down at her daughter, but more secretly to herself than anything. She looked up at Erik, who had turned around at her simple response. “Yes,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. “I believe I have.”

Erik’s mouth quivered. He knew what her eyes meant to say, what they whispered through the words she had uttered ever so delicately.

“Well Christine, I must ask you this,” he said as he began his stride forward once more, with Lillian, Christine, and Magnus following closely behind. “Did this angel…frighten you?”

“No, not at all. If anything he…he was quite intriguing. He came to me when I least expected it. Like all angels do.”

“Hmm,” was Erik’s soft reply. “Did he wear bronze armor? Or have a face made of lightning?”

Christine laughed. “No, but he wore another sort of armor…upon his heart.”

Erik turned back to her, his eyes drinking in the depths of her mind, of the words she had spoken, of the soft love that lingered in the air between them. “I see,” was all he could utter, all he could say. He merely stared at her, unmoving for a moment; stuck between the urge to grab her chin and kiss her fiercely, or to stand there with his hands at his sides, with her daughter perched upon his broad shoulders.

**…**

As the sun began to climb its way down to settle into the horizon, many of the workers had begun to clear out, each nodding to Erik as they made their way past him. Some had stopped to discuss certain discrepancies with him, and Erik had corrected – with certain precision, any of the issues the workers brought to light.

Christine stood with the twins a few feet away, waiting to bid him adieu, yet again. Her heart panged for this moment; she had wanted time to slow itself down so that she could watch him in his element. His eyes were ablaze while talking with a few of the workers; a passion that burned in the charismatic way he motioned with his bandaged hands.

Finally, the last of the workers had left him, and Christine stepped forward, her heart burning with longing, with pain that spoke of their departure from one another. Each and every time she saw him; it was that much harder to let him disappear into the woods – to utter the word ‘Goodbye’.

Erik turned and closed the distance between her and the twins, kneeling down into the dirt as both girls threw their arms around his neck. “Thank you for today, Erik. I missed you so much,” Lillian whispered into his chest where she had buried her face.

“Me too, Erik, I missed you just as much!” Marie piped up, squeezing him as hard as she could. “When will we see you and Magnus again?”

“I shall come by the house tomorrow evening, how does that sound? That is, if it is all right with your mother,” he said softly, lifting his eyes to Christine.

She nodded quickly, trying to hide her smile. “Yes, but of course. And I know Claudia would love to see you.”

Erik rose up from the ground as the twins released him from their embrace, parting his lips as he looked at Christine. He closed the distance between the two of them sharply, pulling her into a rough embrace. She almost gasped out of surprise, but instead laid her head in the crook of his neck. Suddenly his lips were brushing her ear, and she shivered at his dangerous and powerful touch.

“I will come get you tonight at 8’o clock. We shall go to _Le Déviant_ ,” he drawled in her ear. He hesitated near her earlobe for a moment, tantalizing her…then pulled away gently. A smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, her heart swirling for time with him, alone…but in public? Was he that daring of a man? Surely he only wanted to meet to talk…surely kisses could only be given in the dead of the night…

“It is a tavern, one of my favorite establishments. I shall be waiting at your doorstep, after I wash up, of course,” he added, brushing some dust from his hair.

“Yes, I…I will be ready, for you.” she whispered. “I…I cannot wait.”

“Until then, sweet beauty,” he whispered, bowing his head.

And he turned away from her with his beast trotting at his heel, his whisper still on the edge of her earlobe, prickling its way down the back of her neck, chilling her spine devilishly, arduously…

He was an angel, this she had decided. Had she always known? He was simply a bit different; an angel with clipped wings, not nearly as large as his counterparts…with bandages on his hands, leather around his waist, and armor around his heart. But all angels wore armor. And all were God-sent, and all showed up at the exact moment they needed to…and all were exquisitely divine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Feelings? All feedback is deeply appreciated :)


	22. Threads of Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche

Claudia let her thoughts wander as she sewed; it was her paradise, her escape from the world that spoke harshly, that did not know her name. Every stitch had to be in its own specific place; every pull of the needle was a universal line that connected its entirety. The dress would be impeccable once she was finished; its many satin folds lay lifeless over the side of the armchair, yet she knew upon its completion, the lifelessness would fade away and bring astounding swirls of lavish joy.

Wasn’t it intriguing that a simple piece of cloth could begin so lifelessly, yet by the work of human hands would transform into something that moved with the wind?

As if she somehow sensed the wind that might come from the folds of the satin dress, a different wind shook her abruptly from her thoughts. The back door; the door that led to the magnificent garden flew open, and the twins tumbled through, covered in speckles of dust and dirt. Their mother followed shortly after, her cheeks tinged with a pink hue, and eyes filled with a blindness that Claudia recognized immediately; love. And not simply love itself, but the pleasure of feeling love, the excitement of waiting, of longing…

The pleasure of love’s power. It pooled in Christine’s eyes, making her blind, yet causing her to see clearly; perhaps, for the first time. It was an energy so strong that it seemed to fill the room with her mere presence; and slowly, Claudia smiled to herself.

Surely, this woman had been brought back to life.

“Claudia!” the twins screeched, running into the parlor to greet her. They were a tornado of dust and clay, twirling around incessantly; a storm that could not be tamed.

“Girls!” she stood up from her armchair, setting aside the satin that she was carving into ever so carefully. “Although I am overjoyed to see you, I suggest you first make your way to the washroom and clean that dirt from your hair!”

The twins stopped dead in their tracks, giggling to themselves. “We went to the site and saw Erik!” Lillian said through a smile, standing on the edge of the parlor.

“And I got to ride on his shoulders! I could see the whole world from up there!” Marie announced, twirling in a circle.

Claudia smiled warmly. “Yes, you shall both tell me all about it – once you have cleaned up! Now run along, my little doves.”

The twins obeyed, skittering off to the washroom, giggling and whispering to themselves about Erik; the knight who built castles with his bare hands.

Christine stood on the threshold of the parlor, a smile curving pleasantly upon her lips. Claudia scooted forward on the armchair, smiling back at Christine. A moment of silence between the two women spoke more than words ever could; for then, Claudia’s suspicions were confirmed. She knew who had been responsible for Christine’s emotional resurrection; a certain architect with raven hair…

“Claudia,” Christine breathed softly. “I…I need something to wear. Something…astonishing.”

Claudia folded her hands carefully. “And may I ask the occasion, my dear?”

Suddenly Christine lurched forward, flowing across the room to Claudia; a child running into a mother’s open arms. She knelt beside the armchair, draping herself across the figure of a mother who sat waiting; whose golden braid shimmered in the evening light.

“Erik…he asked me to come with him to _Le Déviant_ , at 8’o clock sharp. I…I want to look…well, I…” her voice trailed off, her eyes searching Claudia’s for understanding.

Claudia reached out and stroked the side of her face gently. “Oh, my dear. I believe I have the perfect dress for you. Wait just a moment.”

Christine’s pale face broke into a wide smile as she watched Claudia rise from the armchair and cross the parlor. Fabrics of every color were draped across every piece of furniture; pale rose colored satins, deep emeralds, and silken shards of ocean. Claudia began to sort through different stacks; some that were finished pieces, others that had just begun to take form. Finally her hands fell upon a folded up dress; it was pure white linen, but it shimmered in the lamplight with iridescence; as if it were made of stars picked out of the night sky. Claudia held the material up, and it unfolded itself into the most elegant dress Christine had ever laid eyes upon; made of moonbeams, of glistening fragments of sunlight, of dew drops that lay upon rose petals after a warm summer rain.

“Oh,” Christine whispered, her breath taken from her chest immediately. “Claudia, I…I don’t know what to say. It is…it is too beautiful. I could not wear it.”

Claudia laid the moonlight dress on the back of her armchair lightly, then placed both hands upon her hips. “My dear, I won’t hear another word! I sewed this specifically for the Duchess, but alas, I received a letter saying she no longer had need for the dress. So, I _do_ insist that you give this dress life; that you dress as a Duchess for tonight!”

Christine’s blood ran cold at the words that Claudia had spoken so lightheartedly. _The Duchess._ She gripped the edge of the armchair from where she knelt, her eyes falling to the floor in dismay.

Claudia frowned. “Christine? Oh darling, I did not mean to bring up royalty, or remind you of your title, I…I simply wanted to…oh dear. Have I said something out of place?”

Christine swallowed. “Claudia,” she said carefully, her eyes still concentrated on the wide expanse of rug beneath her. “Did…did you know about Erik’s past lover? That…that he once loved the Duchess?”

Claudia walked softly to where Christine still knelt. She sat on the floor next to her, taking her hands and squeezing them lightly. “Oh, my dear…I heard rumors but I did not believe them. And I certainly did not realize, even if the rumors were true…oh, Christine, please forgive me. You shan’t dress as a Duchess; but you _shall_ wear the dress that I threaded together with the light of the moon. For the Duchess never claimed it, and therefore, it now belongs to you.”

“But…she had it custom made for her, did she not?” Christine whispered, squeezing Claudia’s calloused hands. They were warm and strong, like the sun peeking in through the balcony window to signal the coming of morning.

“Yes, dear, she did…but she did not lay claim to it. And remember...these dresses are all made by the work of my hands. So, my love…perhaps it always had been meant for you to wear. Perhaps, I unknowingly made it for you. Come, sweet child, at least try it on. For the sake of the blood, sweat, and tears that I wove into its folds.”

Christine nodded slowly. If the dress had been unclaimed, if it truly had no name…then it could be hers. Just for one night.

**…**

The dress had shone itself to be more than the moon, more than the stars that ached in the deep echoes of night. Christine stood in front of the mirror in the upstairs washroom, smoothing the folds as they fell flawlessly over her luxurious curves. She had pinned up her hair loosely after washing it; tendrils of curls framed her face, while dark mahogany waves were pulled back neatly, sitting in a thickly braided bun at the nape of her neck. She had spread red tinge lightly across her cheekbones, and had added a bit of shadow to the lids of her eyes. She left her lips alone; for the bitten up scars were just beginning to heal.

The material draped across one shoulder, cinching slightly at the waist without need for any corset to hold it. It fell in long white folds, edged at the hems with mesh-like lace. It was pure silk, covered in shimmers that were secretly tiny jewels; diamonds that were dispersed more heavily at the bodice, flowing down in lighter spurts near the ends of the dress. Her back was completely bare, and the blinding white fabric wrapped over her midsection tightly; holding all of it together in a single diamond encrusted sash.

Her eyes fell to the edge of the blue tiled sink where her diamond ring still sat in its place, untouched. She reached out and picked it up, examining it with saddened eyes.

Out of all the parties and galas he had taken her to; out of all the intricate dresses she had worn, she had never _once_ felt like royalty. She had felt forced, silenced, and smothered in tightly laced corsets that caused her breathing to be labored; that demanded stiff movements and hatred at the simplest touch from her husband’s hand.

 _Hatred_. Had she hated him? Had she truly begun to despise him from deep within her heart; had that been the poison that had rotted away at her soul?

The less he gave to her, the more that he had taken away from her with each passing year…her voice, her singing…had it brewed a poison that had almost destroyed her from the inside out?

She set the ring back in its proper place, by the sink. _I wanted to die. But now…_

_I want to live._

Christine stared at her reflection in the mirror. _God, show me the depths. Let me face them, for I no longer am afraid. You have given me strength; you have given me great wings, that I may not plunge to my death, but breathe deeply, as if it is the first breath I took upon this earth…_

The abyss was silent. Not a single demon reared its ugly head; in fact, she felt as though the demons had somehow been chased away, that somehow…they had been driven out.

Was this what it felt like to be free?

“Christine!” Claudia’s voice rang out from behind the door, as if she had perched herself at the top of the staircase. “My darling, your visitor has arrived.”

Her heart began to pound in the confines of her chest. She breathed in deeply, taking one last look into her own eyes in the mirror; she saw a different woman. One who was changing before her very eyes. And before she turned away from the mirror, she gave that woman a tiny smile. And the woman, so beautifully carved like a statue, smiled back.

Christine descended down the staircase, holding up the pearl colored folds of her dress in one hand. She entered into the kitchen, and there he stood; immense and clad in black, with eyes that had already found hers.

He wore black riding breeches, with dark leather boots that were laced up tightly to the edges of his knees. His shirt, as always, was tucked perfectly into his trousers…and it was darker than his hair; shining with an inky and satiny hue…and again, he wore a silver chain around his neck, just barely visible through the top of his shirt.

The edges above his ears were neatly shaven; his hair was slicked back tightly and immaculately, jet black like the air that had swallowed them just the previous night. He smiled widely when she approached him, yet his arms stayed settled at his sides, with fresh white bandages wrapped around his knuckles.

“ _Gütiger Gott…Was für eine Schönheit,_ ” he breathed, running a bandaged hand through his hair. “Christine, you are…you are…” his chest was visibly rising and falling fast as he searched for the right words, his eyes raking up and down the curves of her body.

“It is as if a Goddess has appeared to me out of a dream,” he whispered. “Yet,” he drawled, taking a step toward her, “I find that I am not dreaming.”

She walked across the wooden floor and embraced him. He held onto her tightly, and for a moment she forgot her surroundings, the evening light that filtered in through the kitchen window. She forgot Claudia who still stood in the kitchen, and she barely heard the twins as they barreled into the room, shouting, “Erik!” in unison.

He released her embrace, slowly tracing his hands down the length of her arms. “A vision in pale moonlight,” he breathed into her ear before stepping away to greet her daughters.

The two girls hugged him tightly around the neck as he knelt down. “Did you bring Magnus? Are we coming with you? Oh please, can’t we come with?”

Erik laughed, holding them both by the shoulders. “Yes, in fact, as your mother and I depart tonight, I decided to leave Magnus here with you…he told me he wanted to spend time with the princesses. And I cannot deny him any request.”

Almost as if on cue, Magnus bounded in through the front door that had been left cracked slightly. He slid across the floor on all fours, his docked tail wiggling furiously. The twins crowded around the beast, hugging him where he sat blissfully, enjoying every moment of the touches and strokes from the loving hands of the girls.

“I am taking your mother out for an adventure,” Erik announced to the twins. “And alas, my beauties, you cannot come with…but I promise I shall protect her and bring her back to you, later in the night. And then, perhaps…I will watch the dances you two have prepared.”

“But I want to go too!” Lillian whined, standing up indignantly and stomping her foot.

“Now, Lillian,” Claudia interjected firmly, “I think you both have had enough adventure for one day. Come, let your mother enjoy her night; and help me prepare supper.”

“Okay,” Lillian replied, sulking. Marie grabbed her sister’s hand, eager to cheer her up. “Twin, we get to play with Magnus all night! _And_ we get to practice our dancing for Erik! Come on,” she smiled warmly, tugging insistently on Lillian’s hand.

Christine bent down, kissing each of her daughters lightly on the forehead.

“I will be back soon, my sweet angels. Now go and help our dear Claudia. I will tell you all about my adventure when I return.”

Reluctantly, the twins obeyed their mother, following Claudia to the countertop where she had began mincing up various vegetables. Before Christine turned to follow Erik out the front door, she caught sight of Claudia giving her a small wink. “Have fun, my beauty,” Claudia called out. “You are absolute perfection in the dress. It was made for you, my love.”

Christine smiled at her before turning back to follow Erik out the door. As soon as they had stepped through the threshold, and the door thudded shut, Erik crushed his lips to hers, and she folded into him, returning his kiss forcefully. Their tongues began to flick and explore, and when he finally broke the kiss, his breathing was labored, and his eyes were ablaze with desire. It was as if the blue in his eyes had perhaps molded into fire; fire that she could feel against the heaving of her breasts.

“Come,” he breathed, taking her gently by the hand. And he led her down the path of the cottage, looking back at her with every other step, flashing his teeth to her in the evening light.

His hand, although bandaged, was so warm in hers. It lit a fire in her blood that ran from the tips of her fingers to the edges of her spine, dribbling down to the wake of her heart.

And the two intermixed into the dusk of the day, a vision in white and a figure in black; two opposite spectrums of color. Yet the colors blended magnificently; two linear painted lines on a canvas that was purposely left blank; for God, the artist, was just beginning to form a new fabrication of life.

Something new, something so achingly fresh and arduous it was almost tangible, reachable. And as the warm air passed over her and through her, she found she could not look away from him; she found that before this very moment…before he had stepped into the house in his black leather boots, she had never felt true desire. Desire that was growing like a vine inside of her, up the bowels of her stomach and begging her mouth to let the blooms out into the atmosphere.

She had always watched desire from afar at the Opera House. There were always men chasing ballerinas, with glasses of golden champagne and promises of love. But she had always stood in the corner, only hearing of their tales second handedly. Until Raoul had come along, she had never known love from a man…but it had never been arduous, it had never been longing that tugged at her heart dangerously. It had felt simple, yet magical…but when the spell wore through, she found herself sitting in an empty room all over again.

And that empty room was where she had lived for the past seven years. And she would not go back to its dust filled, stifling depths again.

She tasted freedom when she tasted his lips. She felt strength running through her from the tips of his fingers, blood rushing to parts of her body that she had never known to be possible.

And as they continued along to the side of the house to where he had tied his horse, she tugged on his hand. Instantly, he stopped, turning to look at her in the last light of the sun.

“What did you say when you first saw me, in the house?” she asked curiously, pulling on his hand lightly. “I did not recognize the phrase. It was German…I…I just want to know what it is you had said.”

Erik smiled lightly, averting his eyes from hers. “I spoke out of surprise, Christine. That is…not something I normally do.”

“Well? What is this surprising phrase that seemed to just…flow out of your mouth?” she touched his chin with a finger, and he parted his lips softly.

“I had said, ‘Dear God above…what a beauty’,” he murmured, lifting a hand to the side of her face. “It just came out…I…I spoke without thinking.”

“I much like when you speak without thinking,” she whispered, stroking his lips with her forefinger.

He bent his head in toward hers, lifting her chin with two calloused fingers. This time, he moved into her ever so slowly, and kissed her softly upon her lips.

“You like my nonsense, don’t you?” he whispered, breaking the kiss tenderly.

“Never have I loved anything more,” she replied, pulling him into her once more.

And seamlessly, the darkness and the light collided; his blackened leather against her pale satin folds; it was as if the moon were leaning in slightly, waiting by the horizon line patiently, just to kiss the lips of the sun who had begun to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to my lovely readers for the late update. Leave any comments, emotions, or feedback. All are much appreciated :)


	23. The Devil's Pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
> 
> \- Friedrich Nietzsche

Erik released her hand as they approached the side pavilion of the cottage, where his horse stood patiently tethered to a wooden post. He walked up to the immense beast impassively, and it stood with muscles glistening against vines that draped from the edges of the roof. The bronze, almost golden coat of the horse shone brilliantly as to emit its own light; a lamp blazing in the corner of a dark room. Although the daylight was dying in the west, the horse seemed to glow in place of the sun; an iridescent medallion uncovered from the depths of the sea.

Christine’s mouth fell open at the sight of Erik’s immense beast; it was unlike any horse she had ever seen. Had she stepped into a dream, holding onto his bandaged hand? Had he led her down a path that would lift magic into the air with every footstep, brushing up dust that transformed death into life; a lamp that drew light to the corners of her mind that had been darkened, fixated upon demons that prowled endlessly?

“Christine,” Erik spoke softly, his eyes gleaming in the dimness of the setting sun, tearing her from her thoughts. She followed him as he led her toward the horse whose coat appeared to be metallic in nature; shining so fiercely it seemed to stand as a new sun in the dark of the oncoming night. Within every muscle that rippled, a creamy golden sheen flashed circuits of light; seeming almost unnatural to the human eye.

“This is Evangeline, one of my finest steeds,” he announced quietly, motioning to the horse grandly with a bandaged hand.

The horse swished a velvety tail at the mention of her name, bowing her head as if to curtsy. Christine had imagined his horse to perhaps resemble something like Viktor; darker than the night and shadowed like a spilled well of ink. But this horse, Evangeline…stood resplendent and garish as the golden trident of Poseidon.

“She’s…she’s so angelic,” Christine whispered, approaching the horse carefully. “Where ever did you find a horse like this? I have never seen a horse of this color, Erik…how did you…?”

Erik chuckled; a simpering growl in his throat. “She is an Akhal-Teke, a Turkmen horse breed. She was a gift from a friend…a mercenary’s welcome, I suppose you could say. They are well known for their great speed and intelligence…perfection for, well the lifestyle that I…well, used to live.” The last of his words faded into a murmur, spoken in a meeker tone than before; an open wound within his chest that was poorly bandaged, for she could see the blood that spilled out with every faded sentence…with every clench of his jawline.

Christine ambled up closely to the golden beast, feeling as if she were dreaming. She ran a hand over the flaxen coat of the mare, turning her palm upward to see if the sheen had spurted stardust upon the pale tips of her fingers.

_A horse made of the sun. Made of the stars, of the moon…and everything in-between._

She felt Erik’s hand press softly on the small of her back, and she turned into him, inches away from his face. “Shall we?” he asked in almost a whisper; a mischievous glint flickering in his blue eyes. Christine was silent, laying a hand upon his chest. Her other hand gradually made its way down his arm and curled around his left hand that lay freshly bandaged.

“You’ve brought me a golden mare,” she whispered, brushing his nose with her nose, standing delicately on the ends of her toes; a ballerina, once more.

“How is it that you make every moment filled with such wonder? With such power and magnificence? I have never known anyone who possesses such a touch,” she murmured to him, stroking a finger against his chest where the white scar was kept hidden. “And yet, you’ve hidden one of my favorite scars…something shall have to be done about that.”

His chest rose and fell violently, as if he panted from her touch; as if each stroke upon his flesh drove him mad with pleasure; with hungry and insatiable desire. His eyes burned fiercely into hers, and he parted his lips softly. “What ever can I do to make up for it? Do you wish to see it?”

She stepped back, pulling her power back into her when she lifted her hand from his chest. “I shan’t move until you unbutton your shirt; that I may see it for the entirety of our time together, this evening.”

He reached up carefully with eyes that never left hers, unfastening the top of his shirt. Three buttons undone, he pulled the fabric open, staring intensely into her eyes as she looked upon the scar. The silver chain hung against it loosely; adorning its pallid and torn looking edges.

“You have so many,” she noted smoothly, raking her eyes across his chest and down his forearms. “I want to know all of them…all of you.”

Erik sighed raggedly, lost in her eyes for a moment. Every scar held a wrath-filled story; a defecation of the past that he had tried to wash away. Each scar told of a night where he scrubbed at his face, where the sink water turned dark red as he wiped away screams that had been drowned out by his very hands.

Would she soothe those wounds with her fingertips; with the soft touch of her hands, her lips? Could she pacify his racing heart; could she strangle the lurching memories that stirred within his subconscious…would she drive them out with her tranquility; her ardent loved that radiated from her delicate chin, her soft figure, and those wondering, prepossessing eyes?

Erik lurched forward suddenly, seizing her by the waist as if to throw her into the sky. She shivered at the touch of his hands upon her waist as he lifted her up into the saddle; the strength of his arms as he thrust her into the sky once more. And then, she was a vision, perching high upon his golden horse, with stars forming a halo behind her pinned up curls.

Erik pulled himself up quickly, sliding nimbly into the saddle. Christine was behind him now, pressed against the heat of his body; the coiled muscles of his back. She slipped her hands around his torso, pulling at his shirt playfully with her fingers.

“Mmm,” was his response; a growl. She giggled in return, pressing closer to him, merging herself into him. He turned his head back slightly, and she glimpsed the dimple of a smile upon his face. “You tease me,” he replied, reaching back to stroke one of her thighs with a finger. She gasped aloud at his touch, clenching her fingers into his shirt…grazing the sweat of his skin through the fabric.

“If you continue teasing me, we will never get to our destination, Christine,” Erik chuckled, tracing his finger up and down the exposed skin of her thigh. The white of the dress was bunched up, leaving the bare skin of her legs vulnerable to him. Her fingers dug through his shirt and into his skin, and she breathed into his back, warmth growing in the tips of her breasts and between her thighs. “Erik,” she breathed, “I don’t want you to stop.”

He turned his head forward, drawing his hand from her leg to the reins of Evangeline. One abrupt kick of his leather boot sent them flying; and the world around Christine became a blur. There had been no simple canter, no polite trotting from the golden steed; she had went from standing still to riding upon the wings of the wind.

The night sky now flooded overhead, a painting that moved and whispered with blurry stars and flashes of darkness. They fled through the forest, and although it was almost too dark to see, Christine was not afraid. She gripped Erik tightly, leaning into his body that also leaned forward; as if racing the two of them through meadows, fields and forests. Villages could have came and went, for she did not see. She was blinded by the pounding of his heart beneath her fingertips; the feeling of holding him; her protection from the demons that might have crept beneath the surface of the earth.

With a seamless burst of sound and light, they emerged from the forest and into the edge of the town where the marketplace had been; yet there were no merchant’s stands or men leading packs of sheep. Instead, the streets were filled with people, and the world was no longer a blur, for Erik had pulled Evangeline into a light canter. The village seemed alive; breathing, as its own separate entity entirely…with every lantern lit, and the smells of spilt spirits fresh in warmth of the air. Christine glanced around in awe; there were groups of people that gathered on every corner, and music could be heard; the sweetness of violins humming, sending vibrations in the air to match the crickets of the forest.

Erik slowed Evangeline to a steady halt to a small closed in area; the same secret place that Claudia had left the horses the morning of the marketplace; though now at night, it was dimly lit with a single lantern that swung from the side of a beige building. Only one other horse was tethered near the trough; a speckled grey beast with a braided white mane.

Before her heart could even begin to ponder or question him; if his touch would grow infinitely across her cheeks, her pale bitten lips, or merely just to brush her hand…Erik dismounted smoothly, lifting Christine from the saddle just as swiftly. He took her hand gently in his, running his lips over the top of her knuckles. “Come, my beauty,” he spoke, lifting her hand up with his own. “We shall enter the night.”

And holding his bandaged hand, the night seemed to swallow them whole as she followed his steps eagerly. The streets were bursting with music, and the lamplights lit the night like a thousand suns held up high upon rods of iron. Groups of women glanced casually in their direction, raking their eyes upon the sturdy body of the man who led her. Christine’s heart spiked with jealousy for an instant, and she gripped his hand a little tighter. She noticed that he seemed indifferent to the looks; in fact, he did not even seem to notice, for he was so focused on the path before them. Each crowd that they entered seemed to open up to his presence; a déjà vu of the marketplace once again. Could the crowds feel his power, or was it simply the way that he strode, with such confidence that one might even mistake it for arrogance?

He led her to a large tavern that was roaring from the inside, and a wooden sign hung over the doorway; scrawled in black swirls of calligraphy; _Le Déviant._ Erik turned and faced her then, in the threshold of the doorway. She still gripped his hand quite tightly; for she hadn’t been to such an establishment in years, and seemingly, she felt out of place.

“There are men here who will wilt at the sight of you,” Erik drawled, reaching up to brush a curl from her face. “Remember that, _mein_ _Fräulein_ ,” he smiled widely at her, tugging insistently upon her hand. And he pulled her into the tavern, into the building that seemed to quake the ground beneath her with its bursting music and laughter of men.

The tavern was vast, with wooden tables lined up neatly along the walls, seeming to border a large wooden dance arena. There was a small band upon a stage in the very back, covered in sweat and playing their fiddles passionately; a song so lively that the couples on the floor seemed to blur as they spun around and around.

“Gin, for the woman that loves a bite to her throat?” Erik asked her, his eyes twinkling in the lamplight of the tavern. Her face broke into a smile, remembering the first night they had talked out in the garden. “How ever did you know?” she replied, reluctantly letting go of his hand. “Sit at that far table my dear, I shall join you shortly.” His voice was smooth amongst the clutters of noise, cutting through it with the brilliance and perfection of his tenor; resounding deep from within his chest.

 _My dear._ It had sounded so lovely, dripping from his lips like sweet wine. Her heart begged for more of his simpering, his delicately placed compliments that prickled her spine with a heat like no other. Christine made her way over to the far table as he had directed, sitting down tenderly, watching as Erik waited at the bar.

She then glimpsed something that caused her heart to seize, perhaps simply out of intuition, curiosity, or fear. A woman sat in the furthest corner, clad in a dark, revealing gown that unleashed the curves of her pale breasts. She wore a necklace that glinted of ruby, and had long raven coils of hair that fell far past her shoulders in shimmering waves. Christine’s heart lurched in fear as she noticed that the woman wore a mesh veil over her face, but two glowing eyes of amber could be seen through the lace; and they were looking directly at her.

Erik returned to the table, a smile drawn wide across his face. He sat down across from Christine, his back facing the woman in the corner. Christine grabbed the drink quickly from his hand and sipped its clear venom; she had a strange feeling she might need its pernicious power.

He raised both of his eyebrows at her hasty movement for the drink. “Am I that poor of company that you immediately must sip upon your poison?” he chuckled, raising his own glass to his lips. Christine smiled at him, trying to hide the nerves that slithered up the back of her neck. “Perhaps I am simply nervous, Erik, for all the women seem to have eyes for you.”

Erik threw back his head and laughed. Oh, how she would die to hear him laugh once more. The smoothness of its sound could be compared to soft lovemaking; to the fevered brushes of his lips upon her knuckles. Christine took another deep sip of her drink, and the numbness soon spread to the edges of her fingertips. She reached back carefully, beginning to undo the pins in her hair. Her tresses fell wildly down her shoulders; an unfurling storm, and Erik watched her intently…his eyes hungrily gnawing at her pale beauty.

Christine glanced above his shoulder, looking for the woman in black. To her horror, the woman had risen from her seat and was elegantly making her way across the dance floor, directly to Erik who was facing away; who did not know…and without a doubt, and another sip of the drink that bit holes into her throat, she knew who this woman was. She felt it, horrified, within her very being.

 _The Duchess._ It was, undoubtedly, _her_.

Erik raised his eyebrows at Christine’s face, for her eyes had betrayed her. “Christine, is something wrong?” He reached across the table and laid a large hand over hers. She hadn’t realized that her hands had been shaking. Erik frowned, interlacing his fingers with her own. “If you are not comfortable, we can leave…I just thought you might love the music…and, perhaps, would dance with me.” His teeth shined brightly as he pulled his lips back, just as the woman in black drew closer. She was almost to the table, now. Christine’s eyes were wide, and she took another deep drink again, squeezing Erik’s hand tightly. “Erik…there’s…”

“Someone behind him, I’m sure he has already sensed it,” the woman, now standing behind Erik, spoke curtly. She crossed behind him gracefully, and pulled out a chair between the two of them. Erik’s head whipped around as he heard the sound of the woman’s voice, yet he did not let go of Christine’s hand. To this, she felt slight relief, but her anxiety continued to surge; for the woman had seated herself at their table.

The woman lifted the black veil from her face, revealing smoothly crafted amber eyes, accented by dark makeup. Her lips were full, pouty, and blood red; perfectly crafted, as if she were a living painting. Her cheekbones were smooth and white like stone, and her eyes settled pleasantly upon Christine. “You’re wearing _my_ dress, my dear,” she cooed, her voice tender, yet filled with undertones of disdain.

Erik was silent; Christine saw a storm of fury brewing behind his eyes. She held onto his hand tightly, cocking her head at the woman. “I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she responded coldly. “Do I…know you, Madame?”

The woman returned the cold smile, her red lips curving around bright white teeth; fangs that seemed to drip with blood. “Duchess Estienne, my dear. Oh, and do not get up to curtsy, for I do not wish to draw attention to myself.”

“I did not plan on curtsying,” Christine retorted, taking another swig of her drink. “And this lovely dress was unclaimed, _my dear_ …so I am confused as to why you might think it yours. Or do all Duchesses think they own whatever they lay eyes upon?”

The Duchess’s eyes were icy, and her jawline drew tight at Christine’s response. “Perhaps you have been poorly misinformed, darling. And I did not come to speak with the likes of _you,_ whoever you are…for I know a man’s pained heart causes him to desperately search for any harlot that might cross his path.”

“ _Enough_.” Erik said in a low voice, through gritted teeth. He turned to look at the woman, his eyes seething with a detestation and resentment that Christine had never seen before.

“ _You_ ,” he spat, releasing Christine’s hand. “Use your _sickening_ rank on anyone else, but not upon me, or this Lady that sits in front of me.” He stared so coldly at the Duchess, Christine thought he may very well turn to stone.

The Duchess laughed haughtily. “Oh Erik, you continue to be ever so witty. Just as when you would almost strangle my husband to death for beating me…your _comments_ , oh, I simply lived for them! Or have you forgotten?”

Erik’s bandaged hands were balled into fists on the surface of the table; clenching, and unclenching. His jaw was locked in a silent snarl, and his eyes were wild and menacing. This woman was a monster. She still controlled his emotions like a puppet-master, using the past as a mirage to shroud him from his future; to keep him in imminent pain. Christine took another swig of her drink, clearing the glass to the very bottom. She turned sharply toward the Duchess who was staring intently at Erik.

“Dredging up the past? So these are the actions you must resort to, in order to get a reaction out of him? Is it because he wants nothing to do with you? That must pain you, Duchess Estienne…truly, I do not envy your predicament. For he is an honorable man.”

Christine found herself speaking quite loudly, as if the Duchess’s control over Erik could be overcome with the projection and sharpness of her tone.

“Honorable? Oh, my dear, have you mistaken him for someone else? You clearly have just met the man,” The woman tittered, batting her dark lashes at Christine. “But of course, there are things that he’s done that he’d never utter to such low hanging fruit – ”

Erik stood up suddenly. “ _ENOUGH!”_ he bellowed, smashing a bandaged fist on the surface of the table. The tavern seemed to grow quiet upon the projection of his voice; women began to whisper, and men sipped from their drinks, watching carefully.

“You will _never_ speak to her in such a manner again! Nor will you speak to me. For I have nothing left to say, to the likes of you. You manipulate so you can get your way Anias…but you will not speak to Christine as one of your pawns.” Erik was snarling now; his German accent becoming heavier and sharpening his words, adding an acidity and bite to his towering figure.

“Oh, so the harlot has a name?” Came Anias’s cool response, although she seemed slightly unhinged by his rising temper. Christine could see it gleaming in her eyes; fear.

Erik thrust himself into her face, his teeth bared in a bleeding snarl. His eyes were wide, animalistic; all sense of his humanity had been drained from his once peaceful demeanor. “If my dog were with me, I would ensure he put a _nice_ little scar on your stone face,” he growled, his face inches away from Anias’s now-shocked features.

“Alas, he is not here…so listen closely,” Erik reached down to his side, pulling a small curved blade seemingly out of nowhere. “Come near me again, or my Lady again…and I will leave a scar alongside your pretty little face. Something you can _never_ take off.”

Christine sat numbed by the drink, frozen at the man who brandished the blade in his hand. The Duchess leaned away from him, but he inched forward, pressing the blade into the soft of her cheek. “Erik!” Christine called out desperately, but he did not seem to hear. He was drunk upon his power, upon the brand that seemed to burn a hole through his shirt, underneath his left pectoral.

“Now,” he growled, pulling the blade away from her skin. “ _Leave us_. And remember the feeling of my blade against your cheek every time you even _think_ about speaking my name.”

The Duchess pushed back the chair forcefully, pulling the veil over her frightened eyes as she stood up. She turned to leave, but looked over at Christine one last time.

“Now, you finally get to see what a _monster_ he is.”

And then she was gone, lost in the crowds of the tavern, disappearing into the throngs of drunken men. The noise began to rise again; men went back to their drinks, women continued their gossiping and flaunting…and Erik still stood, clutching the blade, staring off into somewhere that Christine could not see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, once again, to all my lovely readers. Thoughts, feedback, and comments are always much appreciated!


	24. Teuflisch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “For in that solemn silence is heard in the whisper of every sleeping thing:  
> Look, look at me  
> Come wake me up, for still  
> here I’ll be.”
> 
> \- Beauty and the Beast

It was a fleeting moment that stretched out endlessly into oblivion. The vacant look in his eyes frightened her; the curved sheen of his blade pressed again the terrified woman’s face still burnt into her mind’s eye. Her eyes were locked upon Erik’s face, looking for any trace of the man she knew; but all she saw were handsome features, his lack of symmetry, and lips that quivered dangerously.

Erik kicked his chair out from behind him, suddenly. He blinked, looking away from his place of emptiness, gazing back into Christine’s eyes. The blue-green shimmer was gone, and darkness had slithered its way through: a camel shoving itself through the eye of a needle. “I need air,” he said rigidly, his body tightened and defined. And without another word, he turned away from the table and shoved his way into the roar of the crowded tavern.

Christine sat stunned for a moment; a minute perhaps, nothing more…clenching the folds of the white dress in her hands. She felt rooted to the spot; a tree that had sprouted roots into the planks of the wooden floor…but when she finally ripped apart those roots, when she came to her senses a moment later…she tore away from the table and into the crowd.

She was seething.

She was furious by his manipulative and sickening past lover for interrupting her time with him. She was angry at the woman’s words that bit harder than the fangs of a serpent; but most of all, she was infuriated with Erik’s lack of explanation, and his abrupt excursion through the crowd and out the door. Did he not understand? She had stood beside him in the field. She had wiped away the hot tears from his face; she had soothed his worries. She had been there, just as she had promised him.

And now…where was he? Where was he in the midst of her field?

She pushed her way through the throngs of people, ignoring the men that called after her with raspy voices and the women that gawked as she passed them by. With every step she took, her anger twisted deeper into silent fury, and her hands began to shake madly while still clenching the silken folds of the white, unclaimed dress.

Christine burst out the door and into the open air of the night, looking around wildly for Erik’s broad figure. Her eyes scanned the crowds in the streets anxiously, and suddenly, she saw him. He was standing by himself on the corner of the street; a stolen bottle of liquor clenched in a bandaged hand.

She marched through the distance that separated them, her hair unfurling around her like dark clouds swirling; a summer storm that grew cavernous in a blackened sky. As she approached his eyes fell upon her, and he took a deep swig from his bottle of rotted poison.

“You know, I _certainly_ did not expect tonight’s events to turn out as they did, but even more so, I did not see that you would blatantly _leave me alone_ in that godforsaken tavern!” She spat at him, her teeth gritted together. Erik averted his eyes from hers, turning his body away, his shoulder blades shoving themselves together through his sweat soaked shirt.

“Forgive me, _Fräulein_ ,” he spoke flatly, taking another deep drink from the bottle.

The nonchalance of his tone struck a match to the coals inside of her stomach, stoking the fire within her to an uncontrollable summit.

“That’s all you have to say? _Give me that!”_ she snapped, grabbing at the bottle in his hand. He merely moved it out of her reach with one swift movement.

“Erik, _give it to me_!”

He whirled around, glaring at her. “Are you afraid? Afraid after seeing _that_ , you know finally who I _really_ am? Is that what makes you so angry? For perhaps it is not my nonchalance that angers you…perhaps it is the truth that indeed, I am a bloodthirsty monstrosity!” he was hissing back at her, baring his teeth like he had in the tavern. But now, it was directed towards her.

“You are absolutely _impossible_!” She was screaming now; the power of her own voice surprising her as it echoed out into the streets. “You want to sit and wallow, is that it? You want to roll around in the demons of your past, isn’t that what you always do? _No_! I will not just…just stand here and watch you pity yourself like a…”

“Like a what, Christine?” he moved close to her face, his eyes wild and contorted. “Say it, Christine. Say what you truly think of me. _Say it!_ ”

“I am not afraid of _you_ , Monsieur, nor will I ever be! I see who you are, and perhaps if you had considered any other feelings besides your own, you might have seen that! But instead, you wish to repeat your past, over and over… _you_ are the one who tortures yourself!” she snarled, baring her teeth right back at him. She was small in stature and stood in his shadow, but her form was not to be shattered; she was not afraid.

His mouth fell open as her words pierced him; another scar that would seam along his collection of brands. Erik was silent, staring at the woman who stood baring her teeth in front of him, unafraid of his great towering form.

“I said, forgive me.”

“Forgive you? Forgive you!? For what, Erik? For what exactly…for leaving me alone in a crowd full of drunken men? I said I would never leave you! And now I’m assuming that because of _that woman_ , you think everything I’ve uttered to you a simplicity of thought? A fleeting fancy or feeling? If so, you are _ignorant_! You’re a selfish, arrogant, self-loathing – ”

He grabbed the sides of her face and kissed her furiously. She kissed him back, biting at his bottom lip with ferocity, so hopelessly desperate to make him understand…to make him see. Both were so engorged within their kiss that they did not hear the bottle fall to the ground with a deafening smash.

She raked her fingers through his well-oiled hair, thumbing and stroking the shaved sides of his head. He ran his hands down the lengths of her arms as they curled around his neck, gripping them tenaciously with his thickly bandaged hands. They were a fury of blindness, of love that was unmatched; an eternity that had sparked in the mere wisp of a moment.

As his lips tangled with hers, drinking in the fury of her spirit, Christine thought of Eternity. She thought of what it might be like; God’s promised Eden. A Paradise so rich and so free; unbridled from curses, from past sins…free even from the darkness that writhed inside the hearts of men, unbeknownst to them. She thought of Erik, being free from his past. She thought of the chains that bound him. And she knew in that moment, she could perhaps do nothing; but an invisible cord had formed itself between them. And she could pull at the cord, rip at the cord; become angry at the strength of the cord…yet she could never sever its sinewy hold upon her heart.

She slowly decelerated her angry biting, her persistent viciousness upon his mouth. Christine murmured into him, suckling on the fullness of his bottom lip, stroking her fingers down his chest that was heaving…and she gently pulled away from him. His eyes were closed, and they fluttered open upon the kiss that was broken; and he stared deeply into her.

“I have been foolish.” He murmured softly. He held her close to his chest as his hands slipped around the tenderness of her waist. “I have been everything you have said. I…I left the tavern because I…I did not know how to feel.”

She stroked his lips with her fingers, and he kissed them gently. “Promise me you won’t ever leave me again.” She whispered, her rage at him fading away like the sun settling into the comfort of the horizon.

He gazed at her tenderly. “You…you are not angry at the…the confrontation?”

“No, Erik…I trust that you did it for a reason. I do not think you a man of irrationality. What I _am_ angry at is that you left me to be alone and wallow…and that you allowed her words to control you. And she revels within that. Don’t you see?”

He sighed raggedly. “I promise, love, I can explain. I will explain, to you. You deserve such an explanation.”

She raised her eyebrows, suddenly. “Love? Is that my new title, Monsieur?” she asked playfully, although her heart skipped a beat; a smooth stone skipping across a glass-like pond.

Erik ran a bandaged hand through his hair; he seemed unraveled, for a moment. “I…I spoke without thinking, Christine…I…”

“It is quite all right, _Love_ ,” she responded smoothly, stroking the scar on his chest. “And I do believe it was no mistake…but correct me if I am wrong, if you please.”

Erik’s face flushed, and he dropped his eyes from hers. “It was no slip of the tongue,” he said, finally. “You are love, to me.”

Christine could have melted into him and disappeared. Was he even real? This complex, indignant spirit that swirled around hers; that filled her with such brilliance and hope, it was almost too much to bear?

“And you,” she whispered, kissing the scar on his chest. “Are love, to me.”

He chuckled, and his eyes began to fill with warmth once more. “Come, sweet love,” he murmured, taking her by the hand. “I do not wish to be a man of self-loathing; but I fear that I have become…the essence of abhorrence. I must show you something.”

Christine smiled as he led her away from the corner; away from the bottle that lay shattered in a feverish and littered explosion; the glass glittering like stars in the lamplight of the streets.

They walked for a while, taking in the warmth and solace of the night air. Erik directed them toward an alleyway that stood sizeable enough for throngs of men to linger in, but when he pulled her into it’s dimly lit depths, Christine found it to be completely empty.

He released her hand and began unbuttoning the dark silk of his shirt. Her eyes widened at his large hands as they worked at the buttons deftly; yet she almost feared to see what lay underneath.

He let the silken fabric fall to the ground, a heap of ink stained in the dirt of the alley. She surveyed his naked chest, her mouth falling open at the multitude of scars that were pin pricked into the rigid muscles of his pectorals and shoulders. Erik’s eyes did not leave hers as she took in the entirety of it; and she saw a peculiar circular brand underneath his left pectoral. Before she could ask about it, he began to turn around, slowly. Her eyes widened in shock and she cried out for the horrors that lay seething in the skin of his back; that lived upon the indents of sharp muscles and definition.

Beside the track marks of folded reds and pinks; old thrash marks that looked poorly healed, there was a word carved across the upper exterior of his back. The word was unfamiliar to her, but its crudeness shocked her and harmed her; she felt pain burst inside of her heart as her eyes read the word, over and over.

_Teuflisch._

“What…what does it mean?” she whispered, fearing to even hear the words that would come from his mouth.

Erik turned around and faced her, his temples gleaming with beads of sweat. “Devilish,” he responded softly. He bent down and picked up his shirt, pulling it over his body, sheltering the bitter scars from the wind. “It was another gift from my mother. My father saw it the day he took me away.”

“Why…why would…why would she…” Christine stammered, unable to control the tears that pooled into her eyes. “You were but a child. An innocent child.”

She began to cry for him, for his pain…for everything he had ever seen, for everything he had ever done. Christine fell to her knees then; begging God silently as her palms splayed into the dampness of the earth.

_I will go where you want me to go…I will do what you want me to do…I will be who you wish me to be. Just heal this man, whom I love…standing in front of me…_

“Christine,” Erik’s voice was in her ear, his arms lifting up her wilting form. “My dear…do not weep for me, please. I did not wish for you to see it only for it to cause you pain…”

She sobbed again, but this time she melted into his arms. “Don’t you see? Oh, you impossible man. Whatever has pained you, pains me! I feel your pain as if it were my own. I…I cannot explain it but I…”

“You…you what?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

“I…it’s because…I…I’m in love with you. I’m so deeply in love with you, Erik! And you still don’t understand,” her tears were falling freely, dribbling down her scarred and bitten up lips.

“Shhhh,” he began to rock her in his arms, the gentle beginning of a sweet and ardent waltz. “I understand. I do understand. For I feel your pain as well. I felt it for the first time when I saw your eyes, desperate within the crowds of the market.”

“You say that, but – ”

“No,” he murmured. “It is what drew me to you, your unfinished pain; the sadness that seethed beneath your flesh; a façade, a mask. But I could see it. You, upon your balcony. I could always see you. Always. And once I saw your face, it branded me…bewitched me. I could not stop seeing you. I was bound to you. And I feel that I always will be.”

He wiped away the tears from her cheeks gingerly, and brushed her nose with his. It was the first time their faces had touched, when he had caught her…when she had jumped from her tower that ran to the edges of the forest…straight into the rising of the sun.

“Please…always be there to catch me,” she whispered to him. “Just as you said; that knights never miss.”

“Perhaps I lied,” he purred, running his fingers through her hair. “For I had missed one thing.”

“What is that, this thing you have missed?” she asked tearfully, bleeding into him as he held her close.

“Your love, your touch…the essence of you. And when I saw you I felt…suddenly, _awake_. As if I had been sleeping, my whole life…as if it were but a dream. A long, terror filled dream. But you touched me and I woke; you kissed me, and I lived.”

And although her tears continued to fall, he scooped her up into his arms, curling her tighter into the strength of his being. And he carried her out of the alleyway as she burrowed against the crook of his neck. He carried her through the throngs in the street, through the lamplight that passed softly over her tears, her skin.

And as the night carried on with raucous laughter from the streets, Erik held her. As the night passed through, as he made the trek back to where his horse was tethered, he held her. And as the stars glimmered from above, and the Angels, unseen, leapt with fervent joy…he held her.

And the rest of the night, he listened to her, breathing. Her sweet breath of life that had awoken his spirit forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of my amazingly devoted readers, and my lurkers as well :) Comments, feedback, and emotions are always much appreciated!


	25. Labyrinth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “...It makes me cry, I want to talk about something I am not sure I can talk about, I want to talk about the inside from the inside, I do not want to leave it  
> I am so happy in the silky damp dark of the labyrinth and there is no thread.”
> 
> \- Hélène Cixous

Simone sat quietly in her quarters, perched upon the large expanse of bed that was much too immense for her small frame. Her pale fingers knitted a tiny turquoise piece as her knee bounced anxiously, replaying the deliverance of the Duchess’s letter over and over in her mind; a labyrinth in which she found herself irrevocably devoured by. There had been such pain in his eyes, so much darkness…and she had been horrified. He had towered over her, a powerful beast closing in on its succulent prey, claws extended, waiting for the perfect moment to strike at her throat. He had never spoken to her in such a manner; it had always been kind words with him, and a jest or two. He had once joked about how shortly her hair was cropped; he had compared her to a soldier in the regiment. But never this. Never this animalistic burn that raged from his black holed pupils; never this insolent snarling that transformed him before her very eyes; a man into a monstrosity.

She heard footsteps then, and her heart began to race. She knew who was coming for her; who charged down the hall, raging with swirls of dark fabric; cloaked in night as thick as Hell. The Duchess came for her, and she knew…for the footsteps were light and accented, yet fast paced enough to fill her heart with complete and utter dread. Her shaking hands set the small piece of unfinished crochet beside her; and there she sat, pallid fingers folded…waiting for her desperate fate to be revealed by the opening of her bedroom door.

The door was kicked open, squeaking madly as if to protest the power behind the thrust. A swirl of darkness crossed the room swiftly and Anias revealed herself before Simone, ripping the black veil from her face with a sharp snap of fabric. It was a tearing of beauty before Simone’s very eyes, as _she_ had been the one to carefully knit the lace together into the perfect veil for her flawless Aphrodite…

“ _You_ ,” Anias snarled, lurching forward and grabbing Simon by the arms. She squeezed the girl’s arms with a grip so tight, it seemed as though a snake had curled around them, choking the blood flow from her very flesh. “ _You_ delivered the letter…you promised me he would open it! And you claimed to me that he did…yet why do I feel as though you _lie_ to me through those beady little eyes of yours?”

“My Lady, please, you’re…you’re hurting me!” Simone desperately tried to wriggle from her grasp, but it was of no use. The Duchess shook her manically, her fingernails digging into the soft skin of her arms.

“Tell me the truth, you little bitch! He didn’t read it, did he? He ripped it up in front of your very eyes, hmm? Just as I said? And you…you manipulated me into even _thinking_ that such a letter was an idea of grandeur…you’ve sabotaged everything! _Everything_!”

Simone began to cry. She was terrified of the Duchess’s rage, for perhaps it was even worse than Erik’s…for Erik had not laid hands on her, had not shaken her with the grip of a venomous viper. He had merely stood over her and bid her to leave…as if the pain within him was too great to bear.

“My Lady, he was cruel to me! He…he threatened me! He was cold and heartless and…and did not care for any banter. He bid me to leave as soon as he saw my face,” she sobbed, falling limp within the wretched grasp of the Duchess. “I gave him the letter, he took it…but he threw it over his shoulder and I…I am not sure if he read it but when he saw my face…he…he knew!”

“He knew what? He knew what, that this was all some poorly thought out plan? I should have never listened to the likes of _you_! You’re an imbecile, an idiotic _street rat_ that I gathered from the _fucking_ gutters! And that’s where you belong!” Anias screamed into the girls face, inches away from her shattered features. Simone continued to sob, biting her lips to inflict pain upon herself; for perhaps it _had_ all been her fault. The labyrinth had shown itself, and she had walked brightly up to its entrance…yet once she dared step down its shuddering hallway, the walls began to move and change…and nothing was what it seemed, anymore. There was no entrance, no egress. Everything was molten night, and she was lost in the darkness, her wails disappearing in the unearthly wind of walls that writhed and contorted.

Anias released her hands from Simone’s arms, falling to her knees in front of the bed. She tore at her hair, raking fingernails down her own arms, leaving pink scrapes in their wake. She wailed then, a siren drowning in a darkened sea…and she threw herself onto the carpet; lost in her own self-pity, her hatred…and her horrified moans of despair.

“Simone…I…please….forgive me,” she whispered tearfully from where she lay pitifully on the carpeted floor. The oil lamps flickered over her smooth features; a broken statue…yet one that was beyond an architects repair.

Simone sat on the bed, clutching the claw marks that now lay upon her arms; track marks of darkness, of drawn blood, of sadness…She wiped her face with a stray kerchief that lay upon the bed, in the mess of her knitting materials. “My Lady…sweet Duchess…I…I am so sorry. Perhaps you are right. I am nothing, I am worthless to you…I promised I could get him to read it, but…he…he threatened me with Magnus. I was so afraid.”

The Duchess lay on her back, a wreckage of dark magic in a collapsed and haphazard heap. Tears rolled down her cheeks silently now, and she stared up at the grandeur of the ceiling…staring into somewhere that Simone could not see.

“Anias…? My Lady, are you…all right?” Simone asked softly, sniffling up the rest of the snot that had run down her upper lip. She slid off of the bed and knelt on the floor next to Anias, whose eyes seemed vacant and cold.

“I…I wish I were dead,” she whispered, another tear falling down the side of her face. “I’ve ruined everything. And I cannot fix it. He will never love me again. It…it is not your doing, Simone…I…I merely spoke out of hatred. Hatred for myself. I deserve this pain. I deserve every ounce of it. It is perhaps a mere droplet of the pain he has felt. That I have inflicted.”

Simone stroke a stray tendril of hair from the Duchess’s wet face. “It will be all right, you’ll see….everything will work out…”

Anias sat up suddenly, clawing at her own face. “It won’t Simone, it cannot! He…he loves another now. I could see it in his eyes. And who am I to steal him from that? Isn’t that what I could not give? Who would I be to try and take that away?”

Simone reached down and grabbed Anias’s hand. “My sweet Duchess,” she murmured. “You should let things be, perhaps. Let him go. He loved you so deeply…and that is not something someone can just forget about by loving another.”

Anias shook her head feverishly. “You don’t understand,” she replied softly. “He will never love me. He cannot. I have given him more sin than I have given him love. I have…made him do things. Things he should never have done.”

Simone’s blue eyes widened. “My Lady…what…what things?”

The Duchess shook her head again, her eyes clouded as if in a daze, lost in the pines of a desolate and hollow forest. “I must go to my father. I must return to Paris. I cannot be here any longer.”

“But…but…Anias, the…the estate! You cannot just leave…”

Anias slowly rose from the floor; the inky fabric falling around her form elegantly as she stood. “I will do as I please, Simone. I shall board the first train to Paris, tonight. I cannot be here, anymore...the statues…they…they watch me. They watch with _his_ eyes! And they punish me! I cannot be here. I will not bear this shame any longer. It would be better to burn down the entirety of my estate…to crush those insolent statues, than for me to remain here.”

Simone’s mouth slowly fell shut as she watched the woman made of shadows cross the room. The Duchess paused in the doorway, as if perhaps, she had found the exodus of the labyrinth…but then she turned, with such sadness in her eyes it could have pulled the heart from a new born calf. And blood could be seen spilt across the carpet…Ariadne’s thread leaving a trail through the darkness. And the blood was made of sadness, and ripped open pain…of bare heartstrings that cried as a wolf might howl to the crumbling moon.

**…**

In the dead of the night, a man slept tangled with a blonde woman in a four-poster bed. He was thick with muscle, and his thighs intertwined with her delicate calves as she murmured in her sleep. Her eyes fluttered, woken from the sleep of their love making by quiet footsteps outside of the window. She sat up suddenly, her breasts exposed to the coolness of the dark room. She shook the man softly, and his eyes shot open – blazing like cool emeralds in the void of the bedroom.

“Ryker, someone is coming. I heard footsteps outside the window.”

The man brushed a hand through his hair; it fell in tight long curls down his back, blacker than the shadows that crawled through the moonlit window. The sides of his head were shaved; a refined three inches that held a couple of nicks and cuts from the hand of his barber.

He rose stealthily, fully naked against the gleam of the moon. The woman lay in the bed, admiring his form as he stood up, and the particularly intriguing circular brand that shined underneath his thickened left pectoral.

Ryker moved deftly through the darkness, grabbing a thick dagger from his bedside table. He advanced out of the room and down the narrow hallway, as silent as a ghost sliding its way across a graveyard, undetected and formless. There was a sudden sharp knock at the front door, and a thin voice could be heard through the heavy mahogany surface.

“ _Herr_ _Ryker von Kantzow_? It is Emil, I have something for you. It is urgent, I beg of you.”

The door flew open halfway, and Ryker seized the man by the arm and dragged him through the crack of the door. It shut with a deafening sound, ringing in the man’s ears.

“Emil, what could you possibly need of me at this hour in the night? I have told you I take my deliveries during the day. And I am truly struggling to understand what part of that confuses you so?” Ryker growled, his hand still clenched on Emil’s thin arm.

Emil shivered in the tall shadow that fell over him; he could feel it even though the hallway was dense with never-ending night.

“A letter. From…from _Blutswolf_.”

The wiry man held up an envelope, held together with a plain wax seal, signed in scrawled black calligraphy; the name that used to silence tongues…the name that Ryker knew all too well.

“My brother,” he murmured, taking the envelope carefully from Emil.

“How can you see in this blasted hallway? I can’t even see your eyes,” Emil remarked as he felt the letter slip from his fingers.

“My dear friend, you have never been kept in darkness for long, have you?” Ryker replied, smirking into the shadows as he watched Emil’s eyes widen.

“Well, I…well, no, _Herr Kantzow_.”

“It is time you take your leave, my friend. And thank you for the letter. Now, I have someone I must attend to. _Gute Nacht_ , Emil.”

Emil nodded to the shadows and turned around, feeling his way for the handle of the door. His thin hands finally reached it, and he pulled it open and disappeared into the night, which seemed no different from the corridor of Ryker von Kantzow’s house.

Ryker turned swiftly down the hallway and entered back into the bedroom. The woman had lit an oil lamp next to the bed, and she waited for him anxiously, sitting up with blankets pulled around her.

“Tell me, my dear…do you wish to hide your bountiful breasts from me?” Ryker asked teasingly as he sat on the edge of the bed. He turned the letter in his hands as his eyes grazed the woman and her nakedness, for she had dropped the blankets at the smooth purr of his voice.

“Who was that? And why did they feel the need to come knocking so late into the night? It frightened me, Ryker.”

He turned back toward the letter in his hands, smoothing the creased edges of the envelope with calloused fingertips. “It was Emil. He had a letter for me.”

“Oh?” she crawled across the bed toward him, dragging her naked breasts across his bare back. “From whom?”

He smiled, turning to kiss her softly on her shoulder.

“From my brother.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” she giggled to him, biting his neck tenderly.

“Hmm,” he responded, his eyes tracing over the letter. “He is of my blood…but not as you might think.”

The woman perched over his shoulder as Ryker ripped open the letter with a finger, unfolding the parchment gently. His eyes flickered over the contents of the letter, straying upon the last paragraph that seemed hastily scrawled.

_Our brands are the same, as are we, for what we have witnessed together so many years ago. I am hoping you will answer my call, for I would not write to you if I could rewrite the past myself._

_Only you can do that._

He smiled to himself. “Still a fool, Erik,” he murmured, folding the letter up and sliding it back into its envelope.

“Still a fool in love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, my darlings! Any feedback, emotions, and comments are much appreciated!


	26. Insidious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow, the million moving shapes and cul-de-sacs of shadow. There was shadow in bureau drawers and closets and suitcases, and shadow under houses and trees and stones, and shadow at the back of people's eyes and smiles, and shadow, miles and miles and miles of it, on the night side of the earth.”
> 
> \- Sylvia Plath

Raoul had been locking himself in the bedroom every night, early on in the evening when the sun still streamed gallantly through the windows. He had abandoned sitting in his study; he quickly found he could not bear to sit comfortably surrounded by shelves lined with books…ever since Christine had worn the blood red robe; since the moment she had dissolved in his embrace. Now, the room had changed itself; it had been mocking him with its stench of whiskey, mingling with the tears of his wife that had fallen onto the carpet. She had tumbled down as if falling from the heavens; she had been Icarus with wings melted…destroyed, as she crashed down to earth.

The study had seemingly closed in on him once he had entered – it would shudder, as if the walls were moving around him, swirling and changing. And while they morphed and laughed and took his very breath from him, his mother’s words rang in his ears, resounding in cycles that repeated over and over; and there was no end, no beginning. It was a circle of pain that he could not escape from. There was no safety anywhere, anymore…there was only pain in every shadow that passed over him, passed through him.

The mansion would groan and creak at night, and the only sounds that could be heard were servants scurrying around like ants…and their footsteps seemed to echo too loudly in his ears, reminding him of the emptiness; of the void within the house and within his very heart…of the sounds that used to play as background music in his life. The laughing of a daughter, the smile of a mother, a wife…yet now, the void served only as a heresy, a sickening humiliation. It was his prison now, and there were no doors that led to the outside world.

This particular night, to him, felt darker than the rest. He was a man, yet only a shell as he moved through each hallway, looking over his shoulder every moment, perhaps to see a daughter; his daughters, running to greet him. But there were only shadows that grew from behind his form; shadows that laughed wickedly, lashing his eyes with their twisted and vile shapes. There would never be a way out. His mother had stated it; she had made it so.

Raoul made his way to the bedroom once more, locking the door quietly behind him. He hadn’t been allowing any servants in his quarters since Christine had left; it was his place to wallow, to drink himself into a blind stupor; a lethargy that might drown out the contract that had been written in blood. Every night the same thoughts came to him; that maybe, perhaps the poison that dribbled down into his veins might numb his very being to the core – that it might kill him from the inside out.

He had brought the table of glass decanters into the bedroom; and there it stared from the corner, sneering at him, beckoning him with a crooked witches’ finger. As if under a spell, he glided up to its mahogany surface, fingers uncorking a smooth and tall decanter, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid that swirled with unblinking eyes. He sipped from its depths, savoring the bite as it sealed his throat shut. Another swig gave him the pleasant numbness that he had been longing for…a feeling of unfeeling. A feeling of nothingness, a cave where he could cower and wilt from within; a flower dying in a winter’s harsh wind. Yet, he _reveled_ within its depths – he was in love with its coarse feeling. And he would not stop tonight. If he stopped, he feared he might do something terribly impulsive – he might run down to the train station on foot as the night cast over the city. He might sprint in bare feet like a peasant boy running from the law; he might throw himself aboard a train to Lourmarin. He would abandon himself, and beg his wife for forgiveness. He would give up everything, his title, his mother, his father…all in one thoughtless barefoot run to the train station.

But he could not do it.

Raoul’s thoughts began to itch at his skin, scratching his brain with its horribly insolent questions. Who would he be without his title? It was the only realm he had ever known. He had been raised to take this role; this burden that now crawled and wept inside of him. How could he have known the heartbreak it would bring? The terrors and horrors that were being unleashed inside of him, making him queasy at every turn of a corner, with every breath that he dare take?

And shadows followed him everywhere, now. And there was no escape. There were physical doors to the mansion, and air that whispered outside of its depths. But the threshold in which he stood upon, dangling like a tiny piece of thread…he could see no doorways, anymore. He could only sense the walls as they changed, and the shadows that crawled behind his grey blue eyes.

Raoul set the glass down on the table once he had emptied it. His fingers twitched, looking for something, suddenly. An uncontrollable urge directed his consciousness, then… moving his mind like the walls within his study. A contortion, a house made of winding trees – and somehow he knew, nothing would ever be the same. _He_ would never be the same.

Clarity breached his mind then; clearing out the demons with a gut-wrenching sigh. He needed to control something, anything! No matter what form it took, no matter how strange and absurd the thought was! Raoul carefully walked to the connected washroom, closing the door gently behind him. Maybe the shadows would not follow him, here. It was a room of cleansing, a room of mirrors. Maybe he would finally hear silence within the void, instead of the laughter that the walls consistently gave. An insidious and hallowed feeling of nothing; yet the feeling seemed to be everything.

The mirror above the sink presented his face, yet he did not recognize the man behind the grey blue eyes looking back at him. This man was disheveled, with bags under his eyes that hung like dead skin, clinging to the small bit of life it had left. This man gripped the sink with arms that shook, for even his amber poison had not been enough to calm his nerves. But the strange voice of clarity continued to whisper in his ear, calling him, directing him…and he would do it! He would follow its commands…and it might give him control back – it would give him _something_! Something that the walls might stop whispering about; something that might cure the abhorrent irregularity within his heart that thundered within his chest; a storm upon the horizon.

Raoul opened the medicine cabinet with fingers that had somehow regained their strength, choosing a razorblade and a silver pair of scissors out of the haphazard mess. He moved back to the mirror then, looking at the man once more. His hair, a beautiful sandy blonde, now almost fell past his shoulders. He pulled a piece of it up within his fingers, snipping it with the scissors. The long tendril fell into the sink – a piece of his puzzle, completed. His heart pounded. Just one more piece. For the sound of the scissors was an absolute for him; it was his clarity, then! And the clarity _still_ sung to him, guiding his fingers as he began clipping away at his treasured locks. Soon he was in a frenzy, desperate to get rid of it – to rid himself of it, to change one thing in this desolate world that he could; his appearance. And his mother would hate him for it…she had always loved his hair long – and now he found himself hating whatever it was that she loved.

His fingers worked fast, and as the sink began to fill with hair, his breathing began to hitch, quickening with every deafening snap of the scissors. He slammed the silver tool down when all of it was gone, viewing the man in the mirror once more. The man looked insane – eyes red as the devil’s palm, with mismatched patches of hair on his head. Now, for the final touch. The razorblade.

He cut the entirety of it. Down to almost the quick of his scalp, he shaved gently above his ears, feeling around the back of his head to even out the spurts of hair that the scissors hadn’t been able to grasp. His heart pounded with every scrape of the razor against his neck, against his head…and once he was finished, he dropped the razor as if it had burnt his hand. Raoul looked into the mirror at the clarity, and saw his own eyes staring back – lost and afraid, like so many years ago when his mother’s voice rang out in every hallway…he was still there, in that mansion. Perhaps the shadows were his mother, taunting him, disciplining his choices and his creativity…wringing his bones dry.

He would always be pushed into this corner, this darkness…and there was no way out. There was no sliding door, no egress, no entrance nor exit. Just a pile of sandy blonde locks in the sink, and a man with deadened eyes and hair shaved down to the quick.

Was this insanity? Was this what Christine had been feeling? For his chest was tight, and he felt as though he could not breathe. He sank to the floor in front of the sink, running his hands over his now cropped hair; tears exploded from his eyes like a strike of lightning…yet, instead of lighting up the darkness, the tears only fed the lake that he drowned in. There was no light – there was no Christine. There was no musical laughter of his daughters…only silence that roared louder with every contortion of each wall, of each undiscovered feeling of sadness that seemed to crash in waves.

Raoul sat there for a long time, weeping with his head rested upon both knees. Why did it feel as though he were dying? Had he been shackled his whole life; had his mother been holding his leather leash? Had she wanted this all along?

Why couldn’t it be different? Why couldn’t there be love again, why couldn’t there be any hope? Why was there only darkness…why was there a man in the mirror with short hair – a man he did not know?

And clarity left him alone then, leaving him with the nothingness; the sleeping shadows that called him by name. There was a blackness that surrounded him, a collective of phantoms, of shadows…tree roots that sprung up and twisted around his feet, planting him to the ground, unable to move, unable to breathe…

And he sat in the washroom, bent up on the ground like a dying man…and he wept. He held his head in his hands, his body shaking…and his hands kept feeling the hair cut close to his scalp, and he didn’t even question why…perhaps his hands liked the feeling.

Perhaps his mother might hate it so much, she would hate him…and maybe, she might disown him too.

It wasn’t what he wanted. He could not give up who he was. But now, he feared…as the windows and doorways disappeared around him…

It was not his mother to fear. It was not his mother who had caused this, no…she had simply played a small part.

He was responsible. He had known the consequences. But love had ignited in his heart. Should a man be punished for love? Even if it led to death?

His body shuddered as he cried. He was alone, cold on the tiled floor of the washroom.

And there were no doors. And the windows had disappeared.

And there was no way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE apology to my lovely readers for the extremely late update. But never fear, I shall be back to updating regularly :) Any comments, thoughts, or feedback is always greatly appreciated!


	27. The Crossroads Demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Yet, no matter how deeply I go down into myself, my God is dark, and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence.”
> 
> \- Rainer Maria Rilke

In the sweet soundlessness of night, the roar of a train could be heard in the distance. Giant and steep steel ground upon steel, letting out the screech of a sirens’ wail as the vast black locomotive began to slow its pace. Steam filled the clean summer air as the great beast shuddered, moaning and shaking until its wheels came to a completed halt. The station was lit with two dim lamplights, the only thin branches of sunlight that crept into the void of the night. A woman dressed in shadows perched upon on a bench, waiting as her handmaiden stood nearby. The handmaiden was keeping watch over several stacked suitcases, with loyalty like a dog that wore a pronged collar, pulled tight by a leather leash.

The woman wore a veil over her face; a newly embroidered netting that had replaced the tattered remains of the one she had worn earlier in the night. Her hair was twirled into delicate rose-like twists upon her head, pinned tightly against her pale scalp. Her lips stuck out sorely from beneath the veil; blood red against flesh as white as the moon. She was a statue, cold and unforgiving. She was an empty shell, a tomb where the dead lay hidden, deep within their marble graves.

She was Aphrodite. A living gravestone, a hollowed out wooden goblet that held the most precious of wines. Yet within the carved cup lay a tiny hole, so all of the wine spilled out through the bottom; as did her emotions, her sadness that left a trail of sweet poison from the wooden edges of her mind. Wine as red as blood leaked like tears from her very life force that every human longed to keep…a cup brimming with her own mortality. Yet she was no longer its keeper. She was merely the keeper of darkness, of melancholy; and there was no end to this reddened path of misery that she, herself had created.

A tall figure stepped off of the train and into the dimness of light, followed by the dainty figure of a woman. The man moved with the deftness of a panther in the black of a jungle; with an arrogance that bled into the air with each stride. The woman on the bench did not look up; her eyes were averted, staring off into somewhere…a place that could not be found. A distant memory, perhaps…anything besides the cruel reality in which she now found herself irrevocably trapped in. She dreamt of a time where she had truly felt free, when she could lift her eyes to the sky and feel heat dancing upon her skin. But the time for that had long passed; for it had crumbled within her very hands.

She barely took notice when the striking figure stopped in front of her, with emerald eyes that gleamed beneath the faded light of the lamps.

“Anias,” he spoke; his voice smooth, sauntering, and rich like darkened silk. “I’ll just assume you heard of my arrival, and are now running back to your father. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done such a thing.” The man chuckled. His jawline was cut, and his lips formed a smirk as he folded immense arms. Anias looked up at him, narrowing her eyes through the mesh shield of the veil.

“I won’t stand for your ignorance, Ryker. You waste my time with your words. You have nothing to hurt me with, nothing to bind me with…not anymore.” Her words were flattened and deadly, as if his mere presence caused her to spit poison out into the hot summer air.

“Anymore,” he repeated, his voice taking on a sinister twist of tone. “Why, no more assignments for me? No more husbands of yours that you need me to kill?”

Anias stood up abruptly, inches away from Ryker who stood powerfully over her. She glared up at him menacingly, as if his words had pierced the structure of her very soul.

“You _disgusting_ German inbred,” she snarled through her veil, her eyes lit with the fire of a thousand suns. “You think you can take the past and use it against me? I have more power in one fucking finger than you have in your entire being!”

Ryker’s face stayed expressionless. The delicate woman stayed a few paces behind him, straying in the comfort of his shadow.

“To think,” he began, motioning a large hand in a circular gesture, “that I did it for _your_ Erik. That I did it for love! Don’t you remember the night you begged him to do it? And you got your _filthy_ wish. Except the blood lay on my hands. I did it for him, and only him. _Never_ for you. I always found you…well, _quite_ the egotistical harlot.”

Anias lifted a hand to smack him across his face. Instead, he caught her by the wrist, squeezing it tight with a skilled and nimble hand. Simone cowered behind the suitcases, too horrified to even make a sound…although she listened intently to the words that he spoke, for she had never heard them spill out of the Duchess’s lips before.

Ryker laughed. It was haughty and condescending, seeming to echo for miles in the air of the train station that lay motionless and darkened…a smeared charcoal painting.

“A man’s blood on my hands means nothing, you see…but _your_ blood…that would be quite a catch,” he whispered menacingly, gripping her wrist even tighter. Anias cried out, as if his venomous hold on her had shed blood from the smoothness of her white skin.

Ryker pulled her close to his face, baring his teeth at her like a black wolf in the deep of the woods. “You,” he sniggered, reveling in the fear that now filled her eyes. “Now you, I’d _love_ to kill. And you would most certainly deserve it! And that would be…righteous, now wouldn’t it?”

“Let me go, you sick bastard! You’re all the same, you’re in love with your own bloodshed…I would just be another _filth_ to add to your pile, wouldn’t I? But I am not some merchant or peasant that can just be thrown into a ditch. My father would catch you and hang you. He…he would…” her voice faded off as his lips curved into a devilish smile. He threw back his head, laughing again.

“That is, _if_ your father could find me. Or, I _might_ find him first and tell him of your vivaciously twisted and elusive past! Doing dealings with the devil…hiring a mercenary to murder your betrothed? Wouldn’t that be oh so very… _interesting_? And I liked him. That is, when he refrained from speaking.”

He still held her wrist in a vice-like grip, his fingers pressing into her flesh and tingeing it purple…as purple as the lavender field that lay miles beyond the train station; a field in which she would never enter; a place in which she would never understand.

“You wouldn’t _dare_. It would put your _beloved_ Erik at risk as well,” she hissed at him, pulling uselessly at her wrist. Ryker howled yet again, and Anias winced as he twisted her wrist slightly. “Oh, so you want to _try_ me, sweet Anias? You think you can slither out of anything because of your _precious_ nobility, is that it? I’m sure I can make that the most flawlessly written out scandal. Let me think,” he paused, running his free hand through thick black curls that draped far down his back. “Duchess Estienne plots the sweet and _innocent_ Duke’s death so that she may lay with a mercenary…but interestingly enough, she ultimately decides to _discard_ him like a piece of waste! How ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

“Let me _fucking_ go! What do you want? Money? I’ll pay you off just like I did last time. _Just let me fucking go!”_ She was raising her voice now, and it was shrill as it seeped from her blood red lips. Ryker smiled, releasing her…relishing and memorizing the pain that was laced within her cries.

“Listen _closely_ , my dear…for I _do_ have instructions for you! My demands must be met, otherwise…I shall spare no expense upon releasing your _little_ secret.”

She shrank back from him, holding her wrist to her chest; a wounded animal. Her eyes still glinted with a fierce hatred from behind her veil, but she fell silent as his words cut the night air; a cunning black blade pulled fast from its sheath.

He leaned toward her, inches from her horrified expression; towering over her with his beast of a form. “ _Leave_ ,” he whispered, pulling his lips away from his teeth. Anias could have sworn for an instant, she saw fangs hanging beneath his upper lip as he sneered. “Leave here, and never return. If you are to return, well…I shall do one of two things. One, I might just decide to kill you. And yes, I would _love_ to be covered in your blood. I’ve dreamt of it, you see…many a night! But my second option, perhaps, is the most appropriate for you…to let you live in this Hell that you’ve created. But the secret,” he leaned in closer, widening his eyes that almost now seemed yellow, “shall be revealed. For I shall tell your father, face to face! _Understand_?”

Anias was silent. She shrank back from his form until her legs knocked into the bench, and she fell forcibly down onto its surface. She stared up at him from where she now sat, her limbs weak and bloodless; her fingers tingling with pain…and with great fear.

“I am leaving. Why do you think I am here? I am going back to Paris. I…I shan’t return.”

She paused for a moment, rubbing her wrist that seemed to pulsate as if his fingers left a brand upon her, burning her flesh within each moment that passed…each second she dare stay alive in this darkened world.

“Well, that is convenient for me, now isn’t it?” Ryker purred, smiling widely at her now shriveled form. He had taken her power. She would have nothing left, after this moment. She would have nothing and no one to live for. Only herself.

Suddenly, the train let out a scream, pouring steam out from every soot stained crevice. Anias jumped up, straightening her skirts as much as she could, given her encounter with a demon. She looked him in the eyes once more; they almost glowed from the shadows in which he stood; half lit, half darkness…and she said nothing. Her tongue was numb from his words, from his threats, from the cold grip he had taken upon her wrist. Anias turned her face forward, gathering up her skirts and hastily boarded the train. Simone trailed anxiously behind her, dragging suitcases that seemed much too large for her tiny form. Her shaved head shone against the lamplight, yet soon grew dark as she entered the shadows, boarding the train behind her beloved Duchess.

Ryker watched the train until its steely skeletal form disappeared from the station. He felt tight arms around his waist, and he turned to the woman who had stood behind him for the entirety of his interrogation.

“Ryker,” the woman whispered gently. Her hair fell in enchanting golden waves down her back; it was like seeing the sun on a moonless night. “Someone could have seen you. Please…please be careful, my love.”

He lifted her pale chin with a finger, smiling at her gently. “I would never let anything happen to you. You are the sun that lives in my sky; you make the plants upon my riverbanks grow. I could not live if not for your ardent love. Therefore I shall protect you until my dying breath.”

“It is not I, that I am worried about,” she responded carefully, looking up into his emerald eyes. “It is you, darling. I worry about you day and night.”

“Do not fear for me, my love,” he whispered, kissing her behind her ear. “For I am no ordinary man.”

“I know,” she murmured, averting her eyes from his. “But it is more than that. I worry about your soul, dear love. I worry about the threats you make; that they might come back upon you with the harshest blade.”

He kneaded his fingers behind her neck tenderly, touching his nose to her nose in the half-lit station light. “I am the blade that comes for men at night, sweet rose. I am the voice that whispers in the dark. I am the revenge that God strikes upon men; I am the demon they fear around every corner.”

“Demons,” she repeated, raising her eyebrows at him. “Yet I have never heard of a demon who loves.”

“Then you do not know all demons, my darling. God has given them the choice to love; most just choose not to. It is…easier that way.”

She pulled him tighter around the waist, resting her face against his chest to listen to his heartbeat. “But you do not want it easier, do you?”

“No,” he said smoothly, caressing the small of her back. “I do not. For I love you, and only you.”

“A demon who loves,” she murmured, reaching a hand up to stroke a thick pink scar along the side of his neck. “God must have made him so rare, so beautiful. But that must mean he possesses a weakness? This…blade in the darkness?”

“One weakness, my sweet. And that is you.”

Ryker pulled her into a tender kiss, savoring each soft taste of her lips with the tip of his tongue. He broke their kiss after a moment had passed, taking her hand in his.

“Come, my angel. We must see a dear friend of mine.”

“Just a friend?” she raised her eyebrows teasingly, and a smile curled at the corners of his mouth.

“A brother,” he corrected, and his eyes glimmered fiercely at the word.

And the towering man led the woman into darkness, away from the train station where fate had sealed itself; where blood lay upon the ground, but no eye could see…and no ear could hear the cries that had been spilled. The pair melted into the night, with only a flash of emerald green from the eyes of the man that loathed, that murdered…that loved. He led the woman with bloodied hands, yet she did not see…he led her with cries from men, screaming out into the darkened wood…yet she did not hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of my wonderful readers for continuing to read this story. I want to thank my lurkers (I am appreciative for all of you as well). Any feedback, comments, or emotions are much appreciated :)


	28. A House of Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”
> 
> \- Pablo Neruda

It was in those subtle moments that he realized how truly breakable she was. He held her close to his chest; the way a man might hold a child close, pulled from a burning house. He could almost smell the soot upon her skin as she cried into him; he could feel the flames eating away at the hairs on the nape of his neck…singeing their ends into a thousand handfuls of ashes.

Erik did not know why she cried for him; it was a simplicity that he could not understand…a simplicity that was built of a thousand different branches. She had told him why, of course…love had softened her eyes when she had been angry. Love had soothed his skin when she’d gripped the front of his shirt, wanting to know why someone, _anyone_ might carve such a vile word into his upper back; stretched across his flesh like vines that wriggled beneath his skin. It was a disease, an infestation of his very being…and he had shown it to her. His mother must have been laughing somewhere, howling with pleasure at his humiliation. Yet Christine did not laugh, she did not mock…she did not even dare run her fingers over the damaged and scarred surface. But she had cried.

For him, and only him.

The ride back from the tavern went as smooth as a needle might stitch up the skin; Evangeline was careful with every golden hoof, trotting lightly upon the edges of cobblestones and mud. Christine clutched onto him the entire way, sobbing silently into the sweat soaked fabric of his shirt. Her hands were tight around his waist; and as he steered his mare with one hand, he kept his other hand, still tightly bandaged, softly upon hers.

Questions had been stewing within his mind since the confrontation at the tavern; inquiries of his own brokenness, his own loss of freedom. He rode atop his horse with intensity and power, yet inside he felt weak, saddened, and uncertain.

He had threatened Anias; he had seen great fear in her eyes. Once, he had been the one to protect her from such fear. From a knife to her very throat; from her husband who choked the air from her bitter lungs. Erik had been the one to tame her demons as she came to him, late in the night…where the darkness had surrounded them, protected them.

Was he now as despicable as her Duke had been? To evoke such fear within her, even if she had killed the only life they had made together…which evil was lesser? Which one held power over the other?

Or, were they both of equal stature? Were they both unspeakable, were they both unruly; filled with hatred and blood that leaked in dribbles; a thread that could not be traced back to its very creation?

His thoughts were tumbling over and through, taking control of his breathing and quickening his heart. He bit down into his lower lip, focusing on the warmth of Christine’s hands against his torso. There was love that he could feel resonating from her fingers; a note at the end of an aria that resounded out into the atmosphere, past the stars and the moon and the sun.

Evangeline, the golden arrow in the night, finally came to a steady halt at Erik’s stable. His mind had been tossing and turning like the waves of an infinite storm; where the water had no end and no beginning. Everything seemed a blur; everything seemed to smear itself within his minds’ eye.

“We’re here, my dear,” he murmured gently, squeezing her hands that lay rested against his naval. “I’ll lift you down.” And he pushed away his thoughts, he shoved at them until they receded into nothingness. He was home, and with a woman whose heart bled equally with his; and the feeling of this sudden warmth gave him a sense of strength, of hope that maybe, just maybe…everything was in its right place.

Erik slid nimbly from the saddle, letting Christine’s hands slide from his waist. There she sat perched atop his glimmering steed, her hair wild from the wind’s touch; her face puffy and reddened like cotton stained with blood. It seemed to him that she had finally stopped crying, but her eyes looked distant, as if perhaps she were somewhere else…and not truly there, with him.

“Sweet rose,” he spoke gently, reaching up to her to where she sat enthroned. She was the epitome of sadness, and a moment struck him blind when he realized that she was not crying for her own pain, but for his.

For him.

Christine’s eyes finally fell into his, and she obediently slid into the fortress of his arms. He lifted her tenderly from the saddle, and the folds of her dress crashed all around him like pale streams of moonlight. Erik set her on the ground, bending down to smooth the wrinkles in the satin of the dress. He felt her rest a hand on his neck as he did so, and shivers danced up and down his spine. Her touch was inconceivable. Why was it so healing? Why did it hold back the thunder of his thoughts; why did it make him forget?

As he stood up to face her, he saw that a smile had touched her lips slightly. She was gazing at him in wonder now, through the swollen pink skin of her eyelids. His breathing was steady as he looked back at her, and in a strange moment of complete silence, both fell into one another’s soul.

For the soul could always be seen through the eyes…if one was willing to simply look.

Erik smiled at her. He felt his eyes crease, and the dimples in his cheeks showed themselves to the barren air of the night. It wasn’t just her beauty that bound him to her; no…it was so much _more_ than that. It was the spirit that lived inside of her that drew him so close, that penetrated him with every thought of her. In the moment where the air was still, he could hear her breathing. He could feel the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood that coursed through his veins, making him feel very much alive.

“Come…I wish to show you something. Another place where you can be free…where the world can never find you.”

She smiled wider at him, wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks. “But I already have such a place…for I feel this way whenever I am with you.”

Erik chuckled. “Then I suppose my presence will…enhance the experience.”

He held out a bandaged hand for her, and without hesitating, she slipped her hand into his. It was a completion, the act of a silver key sliding perfectly into its darkened and jagged keyhole. It was the opening of a door in the darkness. It was his own personified freedom.

 _Her_. All he could see was her, in that moment. Her strength grew as she walked along beside him, leaving all doubt of broken threads and shards of glass behind her with every step. Christine was not a shattered woman; for she grew impossibly strong with every look that they shared, with every touch of the hand; with every kiss that he dare steal. And his heart pounded continuously, wishing to steal another, just one more…that it might be enough.

But it would never be enough. He wanted her; all of her. He would love her deeper than she had ever been loved; this, he knew. The irony of her gliding into his life began to prickle at him, and as he led her in the darkness around the backside of his house, the image of seeing her for the first time, desolate in the marketplace, flowed into his mind.

She had been so afraid. She had been a gorgeous creature that he knew he must touch, that he must see, and understand…for her eyes betrayed her when she lashed out at him. Her eyes had always told him the truth; that she had been begging to be heard for years, only to be shut out, to be ignored…and she could bear it no longer.

Erik pulled her along gently, guiding her with the strength of his hand. Suddenly he stopped, and he slowly released her hand from his. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

“Erik, I cannot even see you in this darkness!” she laughed, but she obeyed him nonetheless. “All right, they’re closed.”

She heard the click of a lock, and the creak of a door being opened. “Can I open them now?”

“No,” Erik’s voice was distant, as if he were much further from her now. “Not yet.”

She felt an illumination against her eyelids, then. It was as if the sun had been born in the midst of the night, and now glimmered its brilliant hue across the soft skin of her face. “Oh!” she gasped, turning her head against the sudden emergence of what seemed like millions of bright diamonds that plucked themselves against her closed lids.

She felt Erik take her hands then, and he began leading her forward, steadily.

“There’s a step, be careful,” came his soft murmur once more, and she slowly stepped up as he had instructed. A humidity could be felt then, all around her, as if the atmosphere itself had morphed into something new. The smell of lavender and roses filled her senses, and she clutched his hands, waiting desperately for his words to release her sight…so that she might see, once more.

“All right… _now_.”

Christine slowly opened her eyes. She surveyed the room that he had led her into, yet it was not a room, for the walls and the vaulted ceiling were made completely of glass. It was a large room that existed, yet did not…for its walls seemed to be made of the darkness of the forest; of the vines that clung to the outsides of the panes, and the tree branches that whispered against the clear and water-like surfaces.

The glass house was filled with tiny pin-pricks of light; they filled the vault of the ceiling like fireflies that obediently danced to the humming of the crickets outside. They moved and swayed in the humid air, as if they danced to their own song; a melody of the house of glass.

She looked around in wonder at the room’s contents; never had she seen so many wondrous flowers all growing harmoniously in the vicinity of a single room. Scarlet rose bushes shot up against the walls, nearly overflowing from their wide clay pots. There was lavender too; bright purple splashes that looked as soft as a lamb’s ear. Each plant in its pot seemed so overgrown; they were fingers that sprawled against the glass walls and curved up towards the summit of lights that shimmered inside of the ceiling.

“Well?” Came Erik’s gentle voice, kissing the side of her neck from behind her. “Do you like it?”

“Erik,” she breathed, walking up slowly to a rosebush that gleamed in one corner. “It is…by far, the most incredible place I have ever seen. And the lights…what…what are they?”

“Hmm,” he commented, wrapping his arms around her waist. “They are my fireflies. They light up the greenhouse at night.”

“But they cannot be real fireflies…can they?” she asked incredulously, watching the corners of his mouth twist mischievously.

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he chuckled, sweeping a bandaged hand through her tousled hair.

The fireflies seemed to crown her shadow and wild chestnut curls as he whirled her around. Her eyes were dark with passion, dripping with fire and soot and the burning away of his past that screamed. Of his past that maybe, did not have to exist, anymore…for his future stood in front of him, glimmering with starlight; with twinkling lights that moved against shimmering glass windows and doors. And there were many ways out; there were thousands of exits that led to the outside world. But he did not want to take them. He would leave everything behind, if only it meant he could take one more breath in her presence…in the ardent stillness that captivated his very being. Her spirit danced before him like wildfire, just as the fireflies sang; a new song that he had never heard before.

“You know that…I…” he began, running his hands down the bare skin of her arms. He felt his face flush; the scarred side of his face turning an angry red with the sudden rush of blood.

“Yes?” Christine whispered, standing upon the tips of her toes to kiss him lightly on the chin; a ballerina once more. She stood waiting as his fingers traced the flesh of her forearms; her eyes shining with an eagerness, a stunning reality of hope and love.

“Well I…it seems as though I have…been bound to you. I have not done it myself. It has been you. You have…you have put me under the spell of a Queen,” he finished hastily, dropping a hand and running it through the slick of his hair. His heart pounded faster within the confines of his chest. His throat felt choked up suddenly, as if it were harder to breathe.

“A spell, you say? And what makes you think that I am capable of such witchcraft?”

she countered, a smile brushing her lips like the sweetness of a rosebush; the tenderness of the lavender that grew all around them.

“No, I didn’t…what I meant was that…simply…you…I…”

Christine was silent, yet her eyes continued to glow in the dancing light. He licked his lips, feeling new beads of sweat dripping down between his shoulder blades.

“I am aware that you…you are…still…married,” he finished clumsily, dropping his eyes from hers. “But I…I wish for you to know that I…I…”

“Yes…?” she whispered, moving closer to him in the stillness of the glass house…pressing herself against his chest, letting his own sweat seep into the softness of her breasts.

“I am desperately in love with you. And I…I do not want you to…to destroy your family, because of me.”

“You took no part in the destruction of my family. My husband…that was purely his doing.”

“Yes but I…I consider myself…well, now…I do try to live honorably…and…and yet…”

Christine pressed herself further into him, now seeming to merge into his very spirit, his very soul...

“Yet I…I cannot stop myself from loving you. I have tried, I…I cannot stop it. I am in love with a Vicomtesse. And I desperately need her. So…very… _desperately_.”

“Well,” she spoke gently, running a hand along the scarred side of his face. “The Vicomtesse wishes to renounce her title…a Vicomtesse she shall be, no more.”

“And then what?” he breathed, now looking back into her eyes. The fireflies danced crazily above, as if fueled by the fire that seemed to ignite a torch within the humid air.

“And then…I shall be with the one that I love,” she whispered, tilting her chin up, waiting for his lips to envelope hers.

He crushed his lips to hers, tasting every part of her tear soaked skin, delving into every secret piece of her spirit. And for what seemed like forever, in the deep of the still, they held each other with a desperation that could not be ascertained. A woman’s spirit merged, after so many years, with the spirit that had longed to find her. And there they stood, engulfed in the intensity of an arduous love…surrounded by vermillion roses that grew up towards the sky, blooming with large, heart-shaped faces.

And the fireflies danced, humming a melody that could not be heard, yet resounded through the windows and walls and out into the atmosphere…where the Angels of the heavens danced a similar rhythm, an analogous song…

And all was faithful, all was desperately true…all that was broken was fixed, for a moment…a single moment that stood still in time. A moment that was written within a house of glass; where purple flowers stirred and whispered…the same hue of a daughter’s face, the face of a girl in the marketplace…the face that made a man part the seas of a crowd…the face that drew a man to the other half of his spirit.

And all was still, all was quiet…and love blossomed upward, forward and through…

Inside the house made of glass, where rosebushes bloomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every single reader who has continued on this journey with me. I do, once again apologize for the late update. Any feedback, emotions, or comments are highly appreciated.


	29. The God of Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I move from dreamer to dreamer, from dream to dream, hunting for what I need. Slipping and sliding and flickering through the dreams; and the dreamer will wake, and wonder why this dream seemed different, wonder how real their lives can truly be."
> 
> \- Neil Gaiman

Raoul had nowhere else to go, and nowhere else to be. It had seemed his schedule had faded with the passing of each day; that the tasks appointed to him no longer mattered. Why had they been so urgent before? Why had his study stolen so much of his life force, his time, his spirit…the papers and books he had consumed so hungrily…were they nothing but manmade manuscripts; each page holding a grievance of lies, of penmanship that had stolen him away from everything he once held dear?

It was early afternoon when he found himself standing at the threshold of his mother’s manor. It loomed before him, stretching up into the sky with dark pricks of architecture, with shadows that devoured the unsoiled clouds of summer. He had never noticed its darkness before this moment; and it seemed that the entrance of the manor matched his insides; its grand archway served as the gaping hole that lay shredded and bleeding within his very soul.

The double doors stood before him, sneering at him with heavy brass handles…would he reach out and touch them, would he sanctify its blurred reason with his own crude suffering? Would he walk up dozens of carpeted stairs to the parlor filled with smoke; would he face the woman that had criticized him without any love…would he dare enter such a place? Would he become what the mansion personified; a darkened etching that swallowed the cheery blue of the sky? Even as he reached out for the handle, the earth seemed to scream from beneath him. _Turn back and run, little boy!_ _You can still make it right. You can still…_

His hand gripped the handle and pulled. The door creaked open, shrieking upon golden hinges. The sound blinded him, yet he felt already as if he could not see. His eyes rested on the wooden flooring of the dimly lit foyer; and he stepped through the threshold, entering into his mother’s house. There was no feeling of sadness; there was only emptiness…for he now knew that this house, these walls that moved…had stolen his childhood from him. Weren’t he but a child, after everything? Wasn’t he just a little boy all over again, waiting for his mother’s approval that would never make him whole?

The walls seemed to quake with every footstep, and shadows seemed to follow him, groaning and crying. The servants stared silently at him, their mouths sealed tight against his ghastly and horrific appearance. Raoul had barely looked at any of them; they were mere drawings, creations of his mother’s indestructible and cruel painting. It was now as if he lived in her world, the one she had made with crooked and bloodied fingers…softly moving her brush over the dark spots of the walls; those sickening walls that laughed at him, mocking his very being; the spirit that still fought to live within.

The parlor door was open halfway, signaling to him that his mother was expecting him. She had sent a messenger with a note, after all…and he held the very parchment clenched in his left hand.

Again, she was asking too much of him. She always seemed to need something from him…but this time it was more than he could bear. He took a deep breath, and with a shaking hand pulled open the door to his mother’s parlor. Billows of grey smoke stilled in the air.

The Comtesse sat perched like an arrogant queen on the edge of her beloved emerald armchair. Her grey hair was pinned up in a tightly braided coil, and it sat illustriously upon her head like a crown. She smiled at him as he stood in the doorway; a smile that was not genuine, but born of wickedness and deceit. Raoul could feel her cold eyes raking over the entirety of his figure; his simple dress shirt and black trousers. Her lips then folded into a tight line as silence stretched out between them, and suddenly…he was embarrassed. Had he come trying to prove a point with his shaven head? Surely she could see the nick marks and tiny bits of dried blood upon his scalp. Surely she would know he had done it himself. Would she think him unhinged, would she think him insane? Would she lock him away forever – did she have the power to even do such a thing?

“My dear, come sit with me,” his mother purred, her tone of voice not matching the stony look in her faded blue eyes. Her sickly sweet voice cut the silence like the scissors that had chopped off every lock; and through the smoke billows he could have sworn her eyes seemed yellowed; like damaged parchment or the eyes of a living demon.

Raoul obeyed quietly, averting his eyes from hers as he found solace in a darkened armchair, arranged carefully across from hers. The only distance between them was the long mahogany table, and strangely, instead of a stray wine glass or two, the table was covered in various items. He sat back into the armchair and studied the contents of the table; the delicate glass ashtray was piled with cigarettes, and three bottles of deep red wine stood in a disarray. Then his eyes fell upon a small glass bottle with a label stuck to its side. In miniscule black calligraphy it read, “Morpheus; God of dreams.” His eyes rose to meet his mothers’.

She raised her eyebrows at him, taking an elegant drag off the end of her cigarette holder. “What, my dear? I have been worried sick! You live in your manor, all alone, surrounded by your staff…without your family beside you…” Her eyes softened, just for a moment. “I see you have…cut your hair.”

“Yes,” he answered somberly, his eyes falling from her gaze once more. “I have.”

The Comtesse sat still for a moment, then gently rose from her armchair. “You’ve read my letter, I assume, dear?”

His left hand tossed the crinkled paper onto the table. The paper fluttered and landed right in the ashtray; a crumpled wreck of ink mixed with sweat from his palm.

“Mother, I must go see her. I am sick…just as she described she was. I am lost without her.” He did not know how his lips formed the words…perhaps they were the only description of his condition that his mind could muster. But the Comtesse seemed unperturbed, lifting an open wine bottle to fill her empty glass. She sat back down gracefully, sipping her wine between drags of her cigarette. Her lips were stained red; perhaps she had been drinking all morning. It wasn’t unlike her, anyway.

“My dearest, you cannot go see her. That is, not quite yet. As I wrote in my letter, you must attend your father’s gala! Oh, it will be spectacular, really! And you _must_ make an appearance, why…if you did not show, what would people say? What would they think? A young man in such a _high_ position…they might think that perhaps, he is… _unfit_.”

She took another sip of wine and set her glass back onto the cluttered table between them.

Raoul shook his head slowly, taking in all of the smooth words she lay upon him like the edge of a blade. “Mother, this is why I’ve come. I cannot go to the gala, I am…I am not well.”

“I can see that. I can see you are…well, it looks as though you haven’t slept in days. And your hair? At least clean the nicks upon your scalp, my dear…you wouldn’t want an infection, now would you?”

Raoul stared at the ground blankly. “You don’t want me to see her. You want me to leave her. That’s the way it has always been with you, mother. But I can’t…I can’t continue like this. I can’t live apart from her any longer.”

“Raoul, now let us not be reckless. You said it yourself, that she needed the time…alone. I understand your… _desperate_ need to be with her. But it is clear that your wife…needs such space. In case you have forgotten,” she eyed him, “she was quite sick too, from the way you described it. Fits of hysteria, loss of self…now these are natural things in a woman’s life! You must give her the time she needs. And,” she added, “I have something that will lessen your pain, my sweet boy.”

Raoul eyed the labeled glass bottle upon the table. Next to it was a wrapped up parcel, tied together with a thin red ribbon.

“Morphine, mother? And you honestly think _this_ can cure the pain that I feel? I do not hurt within my body… _no_ …it is my mind that will not let me forget! And I cannot go on like this! You would have me stay here longer for father’s gala? Instead of seeing my wife? I’ve had enough of this,” his voice broke, and tears blurred the edges of his vision. “You’ve never cared. Not once. So why did I think that you might understand?”

“Raoul, darling, do not lecture me upon relationships when I’ve lived in a marriage for half a lifetime. There are sacrifices that you must make. You were born to be a Vicomte, and once your father passes…a Comte. You were born to be great, to prosper within high society, my dear! Yes, I do not approve of your wife…but we shall put those differences aside, for now.” She leaned forward in her chair, placing skeletal fingers upon the surface of the table. “Your father and I do not ask for much. Why in fact…perhaps we will…reconsider the disownment of the girl…that is, _if_ you attend the ball.”

Raoul’s eyes hardened, and he glared at her, suddenly filled with overwhelming hatred for her, with liquid rage that struck like the fangs of a cobra.

“How can you hold this over me? How can you do this to your own son?!” he cried, standing up hastily. “You act as if Lillian is a pawn in some game you’ve created…you’ve _never_ cared about my family! All you give a _damn_ about is the reputation of the De Chagny name! And I…I’m…sick of it mother. Can’t you see your own son is dying inside? Are you so heartless that you would turn your back on me?”

The Comtesse held her composure, sipping again from her glass of blood colored wine. “Heartless? My dear…if I were truly heartless, I would have forbid the marriage in the first place. It seems as though your emotions have gotten the best of you…and taking that tone with me will not fix any of your problems. It will not fix what is broken between you, and your beloved.”

“What do you know about us?! You know _nothing_ , mother! You barely said anything to her at the wedding, and every gathering you seem to – ”

“Silence.” Her voice cut into his, this time thick with a venomous tone, slick like black ice. “You are unhinged, my son. That much is clear. So this is what I propose.” She reached across the table, moving the labeled bottle towards him, along with the wrapped up parcel. “Take this…it’s a mere…gift, let’s say. To calm your nerves. You will stay for your father’s gala, and then…run off to see your beloved. If you do what I ask, dear boy…I shall revoke the paperwork upon your bruise-faced daughter. Consider the papers…null and void. That is, if you attend.”

Raoul’s expression was blank, once more. He felt a flutter of hope within his chest; a peculiar sensation to feel in the depths of his mother’s smoke infested parlor. “But mother, the gala is a month from today.”

“Yes, my dear, that it is. And, one more thing. I wish for you to stay here for the duration of that month, under my _motherly_ supervision. And, please, my dear son…use what I gave you,” she motioned a crooked hand towards the morphine. “We wouldn’t want your father finding out about your…condition, now would we?”

“No,” he answered flatly, staring at the bottle on the table. He had never tried morphine, although he had read bits and pieces about it. It was a pain reliever, and quite commonly used. Perhaps it could take away the darkness, just for a bit…just until he could see Christine again, and embrace both of his daughters. The dread and fear that had held him for days suddenly felt harmless as he looked at the bottle…perhaps it could quiet his storm.

The Comtesse stood up, sweeping a stray hair behind her ear. “I will take my leave now, dear…I wish for you to be packed up and back at our manor no later than this evening. I will have the servants prepare a ravishing room for you! Oh, and let me know if you run out of needles,” she purred, patting the parcel that was wrapped with the red ribbon. “The family physician _always_ has plenty. And, my dear…do not use your arm. We wouldn’t want any…markings to show, of course! I’d suggest between the toes,” she said with a grand smile, stepping around the table and gliding toward the threshold of the doorway.

Raoul turned and looked at her. “Yes, mother, I shall, and…thank you.” He forced a thin-lipped smile, and she nodded in approval.

“Oh, and _one_ last thing, my dear. Your father and I need you at your _very_ best for the ball, you see…The Duchess and her father will be attending.”

And between the shadows of smoke that hung in the air, the Comtesse disappeared from the threshold of the parlor, her quiet footsteps slowly fading down the hallway.

Raoul sat very still, for the air felt quiet…he waited until not a single sound could be heard. He bent down, unlacing the thick ties of his shoe…pulling it off slowly. His fingers shook as he pulled his bare foot to him, studying the tiny portions of flesh between his toes. He picked up the small bottle in his hands, his eyes flickering over the inscription, again and again…

_Morpheus. The God of dreams._

Perhaps there was a way out of the house that moved, that contorted, that blamed, that stained…perhaps he could make everything all right again.

And maybe this bottle, this morphine…the God of dreams…

Maybe it was the God he needed to be praying to, after all.

And as the smoke cleared in the parlor, a flick of a needle could be heard amongst the silence…and Raoul laid back in his chair, feeling as though he had just sprouted wings. They were wings that could take him anywhere; away from the labyrinth of his mind, away from the house that had no entrances, no exits…

Away from the place where there was no way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A enormous thank you, as always, to all of my readers. Thank you for loving every bit of this story, no matter how dark it sometimes can be. Feedback, emotions, and comments of any kind are much appreciated.


	30. Sing, Sweet Nightingale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I shall die here. Every inch of me shall perish. Every inch, but one. An Inch, it is small and it is fragile, but it is the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away. We must never let them take it from us.” 
> 
> \- Alan Moore, V for Vendetta

Claudia’s evening had been illustrious and filled with laughter; a painting created by God’s very hand. She could not remember a time where her heart had been filled with such pure and utter joy. She could not remember the last moment where her cheeks ached from smiling; the feeling itself was unusual and unfamiliar, yet she adored this feeling – the feeling of being faint from grinning, exhausted from such pleasing delights of love. 

The twins had been dancing in the kitchen after supper, spinning and twirling, imitating their slender curve of a mother who had demonstrated grace. The house had felt alive that night, humming with songs of the little ones, and with Erik’s great brute of a dog that seemed to fill the empty spaces. Magnus laid beside a strewn kitchen chair all evening, relaxing his dark eyes onto the clumsy jumps and haphazard whirls of the twins. Claudia had seated herself comfortably to watch their animated and eager performance, sipping bitter red wine out of an ornate glass. She had never seen such love between two siblings, and it astounded her, piercing her heart like a blade that bid a warriors death. For Claudia had grown up without siblings, vulnerable without the unconditional spirit of a sister or a brother. She had been alone all of her childhood, lacking a father or a mother to soothe any cries of doubt, fear, or pain. 

She had been an orphan. She had been nothing, and mattered to no one. 

Yet life seemed to have morphed into something she had never expected it to be, something she had prayed for yet had never received. It was those dark nights so long ago in the orphanage that had been the most terrifying; for every creak of her rusted bed had sent shivers down an innocent spine. And the other orphan girls never loved her; they would steal the toys she would whittle from wood…they would pull upon her golden hair, nagging and spitting and cursing. And some nights they would sneak to her bedside, snipping off pieces of her beloved bronze tresses…and Claudia would wake to find patches of scalp beneath her quivering fingers. She had run away from that horrid building eventually; a child in a nightgown, carrying nothing but a small wooden bird in a clammy palm. But that bird had been her companion, her pet; a spirit of a friend. It told no lies, and it did not sing…but it was always solid and smooth, it was always so beautifully consistent. Had consistency been too much to ask for? Had God not loved her enough to give her more than just a wooden bird, all those years ago? She had even wondered…did he hate her, so? Had she killed her mother at birth; must she atone for sins that were altogether hidden within the confusion of a tattered child’s mind? 

And now, as she gathered the girls in her arms, kissing them, urging them to wash up for bed…she had understood something magnificent. Within the peaceful light of the kitchen where candles glimmered upon countertops, she felt as though her heart might burst open. She had a family, finally, after years of living alone…years of keeping her heart behind blackened bars. How else, she had asked God…was she supposed to protect it? How could she let her heart be free if the world was out to steal it away, just as the orphans had cut off her hair, had stolen away her innocence, her creations…the joy that dare flourish within the confines of her heart? 

And God had answered her, softly. He had brought her a carriage filled with a young mother’s brokenness; he had gathered a shattered family and brought it upon rickety wheels to her very doorstep. He had whispered into the wind, a gentle sigh; a kiss upon the beads of sweat that rested upon Claudia’s forehead. He had given her peace, at last. He had given her motherhood, he had restored her very life force. For she had thought her existence was purely to sew regal designs for nobility in their richly adorned estates; she maintained hardened callouses upon her fingers to prove of late nights pulling an endless needle, of making impossible deadlines for princes and baronesses…she had thought that this had been her purpose. But God had shown her otherwise – and as she listened to the twins giggling and singing behind the closed door of the washroom, she sighed...for everything felt within its right place; the candles lit up the kitchen like swirls of fireflies, and Magnus lay sprawled out on the floor, his eyes drooping shut as the hour turned late. 

The twins came scurrying out of the washroom in their nightgowns, with faces pink from scrubbing. 

“Claudia, we are all clean, just like you asked!” Marie sang with a leap, spinning in light colored cloth while lifting an arm into a tiny arc. Claudia set her glass down on the wooden tabletop, standing at the ready to whisk the two little angels off to bed. 

“I see, my dears! Why, what clean princesses you are, smelling of lilac soap! Come along now, let’s get you both into bed,” she said through another smile, her cheeks weak from the laughter that had ensued as the night had cast itself over the sun. 

As the twins ran excitedly to their bedroom, Magnus lifted his head at the sound. He rose from the floor, stretching dark sinewy muscles, and followed the twins into their bedroom. Claudia leaned in the doorway, smiling to herself as they snuggled up in the four-poster bed. Magnus had already hopped up onto the bed, settling himself between the two girls. Lillian and Marie stroked his head sweetly, cuddling up to his large silky form that seemed to bridge the darkness within the room. It was a painting in front of her that she never wanted to forget; two perfect little girls getting ready to dream…with their guardian angel nestled in-between. 

“Goodnight, my darlings,” Claudia called out from the threshold of their room. “I am sure Erik will not mind you borrowing Magnus for a night,” she added. She began to shut the door quietly as she heard the soft simmer of the twins’ peaceful sighs. 

“Goodnight, Claudia,” they murmured into the dark of the room, and all was silent, all was still. Could the earth have perhaps stood frozen for a moment…had God painted this world within her mind’s eye? What a beautiful atonement he had given her. What an astounding life she now lived. 

Claudia made her way back into the kitchen, letting out a long sigh. It was half past ten o’ clock, and Christine had still not returned. She settled into a chair at the table, sipping on the wine that still swirled within the confines of the glass. Christine was safe with Erik, of course…well, perhaps she was more than safe. She had fallen for him; this, Claudia knew…she could see the light returning to Christine’s eyes, the excitement and splendor of a blossoming love. She did, however, worry about the coming of the Vicomte…what would he say, what might he do? Claudia had never met him before…she had only corresponded with him through letters about the house; through the money he had sent her over the years to keep it furnished and taken care of. She desperately wished for Christine and the girls to stay, why, perhaps forever…but she knew that they might be stolen away from her. It had always been a fear that grew like a vine inside of her heart…the fear of losing the only family she had ever possessed. She could only pray to God that he protect them, somehow…that he might cast down his love and change the course of the thunder upon the horizon. 

An abrupt and loud knock at the front door shook Claudia from the churning of her thoughts, and she jumped slightly, knocking a splash of blood red wine across the knuckle of her hand. 

The knock came again, firm and steady, and she quickly rose from her seat at the table. Who would come knocking at a such a late hour? Surely it was not Christine, for she would have simply let herself in. 

Claudia moved across the kitchen to the front door, bracing herself for who might be behind it. She opened the door slowly, squinting her eyes to see out into the deep dark of the night. A short and wiry man stood at her doorstep, with a leather satchel slung across his thin frame. She could see a horse mere paces behind him, and she sighed in relief. It was only a messenger. 

“Mademoiselle Claudia Bordeaux?” the man asked, anxiously twisting his fingers around a thick envelope. Claudia eyed the man and nodded, holding out her hand to receive the letter. “Yes, I am she.” 

“I was ordered to deliver this letter personally, Mademoiselle. It comes with urgency from the Comtesse De Chagny.” 

“Well, I thank you for delivering it so diligently,” she responded carefully, taking the envelope from his outstretched hand. “Will that be all?” 

“Yes, Mademoiselle, the Comtesse has already paid the expense.” 

“All right. And I do happen to know of decent lodgings not far from here – The White Heron, further into the heart of Lourmarin. It is a few miles through the woods but not far,” Claudia explained warmly. The man looked quite weary, and he nodded his head gratefully. 

“I thank you, Mademoiselle. I shall most certainly take that advice. Adieu,” he called out, making his way back to his horse. “Adieu,” Claudia responded quietly as she shut the door. She stared down at the envelope, turning it over and over in her hands. It was addressed to her in swooping and bold black ink; handwriting she did not recognize. She walked back over to the kitchen table, settling herself into a chair before tearing the envelope delicately with a forefinger. She pulled thick parchment out of its shell, unfolding the letter in the faint gleam of expiring candlelight. 

_Mademoiselle Claudia Bordeaux,_

_I hope this letter reaches you in safety, and in the timely manner I have set out for my dear messenger. I write to merely inform you that my son, Raoul De Chagny, will not be visiting your cottage as he had previously promised. He will be needed in Paris for at least a month’s time, if not longer. I trust you will relay this information to his wife, and explain that he is quite busy within the nobles’ court. I assure you that your payments will still be sent as per his request, and I trust that you will keep the family with you until further notice. This is, of course, all at the request of my dear son._

_And Claudia, might I add that my son speaks very highly of your services. So I fear I must ask a favor of you, regarding your payments per month for your living quarters._

_I wish for you to keep Christine at the cottage and away from my son – I fear that he wishes to end the marriage between himself and his so-called Vicomtesse. He is afraid that she is not fit for the role within his family, yet he tells me it will hurt her deeply were he to confront her._

_If you can relay this message to our dearest Christine, I will triple your payments per month. You will never have to worry about anything monetary, ever again. You will have more than enough for expensive silks and fabrics – I know this is a necessity, for my son explained to me of your highly exceptional work as a seamstress._

_I hope you and I can come to an agreement upon this issue. I wish only for dearest Christine’s happiness – and I know her sickness must be receding, for she is away from the stress of the life as a noble. She was never meant for it, which is why I must step in not only for the sake of my son, but for the love I have for Christine._

_With all the love in my heart,_

_Comtesse Jezebel De Chagny._

Claudia set the letter down carefully. She was conflicted by the words of the Comtesse that seemed all too sweet – with penmanship that was rank with manipulation and perfume. She folded up the letter, sliding it away from her as if it could infect her; as if an ancient brooding spirit had awoken in the dark as her eyes flickered over each word. 

What would she say to Christine? Or would she simply touch the parchment to a dying flame, incinerating its twisted words into dust? 

But Christine was in love. She was in love with the man who lived alone in the woods; the man who had rescued her daughter from the claws of the devilish, of the desperate mangled mouths of a society who lived without feeling. She was in love with a man who would love her until death, and perhaps beyond that…this, Claudia knew. 

But what of this letter? Did death have such a stench, did fire and brimstone reek of sweetened parchment and ink, signed with the name Jezebel? 

With every breath she took, and every sip of wine she touched to her lips, Claudia felt an anger rising up within her. A woman wanted to buy her loyalty, a woman in power, who had the means to do so. And indeed, Claudia needed the money. And Christine would not protest to the promise to stay, to leave Paris behind, forever. But surely there was another way? Surely God did not wish for her to sign this pact, surely he did not want her making deals with the Devil? 

And just as the last candle began to fade, and darkness swarmed the room like flies that might cover a rotting corpse, the front door opened. Claudia leaned forward, squinting her eyes at the doorway that was now only lit by the path of the moon. It was Christine who stood at the threshold, with starlight glimmering in the gentle folds of her dress. She wore a smile that was so bright, the sun must have been jealous – for her cheeks shone with a pink tinge deeper than the hue of a rose…and her eyes sparkled with the promise of new life. 

“Claudia,” Christine breathed, shutting the door behind her as she glided across the room. “Oh, Claudia. I fear I am sick,” she sang triumphantly, sweeping an arm dramatically across her forehead. “I am diseased with the breath of summer’s wind – I am deeply intertwined with…a feeling of…of...” 

Claudia raised her eyebrows. “Yes, my dear…I can see that you…well, I am not blind, you know.” She stood up and made her way over to the bottle of wine that stood amongst the clutter of the wooden counter. “Wine, my dear?” she asked. 

“Yes, I…I suppose I shall have a glass,” Christine sighed, leaning back into the chair. “Oh Claudia…it was….he is…so very…wonderful. So wonderful that I fear I might be dreaming.” 

Claudia came back to the table, setting another ornate glass filled with wine in front of Christine. “Ah, yes, my dear…he is quite the man, isn’t he? Heroic, yet humble…strong, but kind.” 

“But Claudia, he is so much more than what he shows to the world…he…he sees me. He sees my spirit, who I am…who I always, perhaps have been…someone I thought had died, long ago. But I feel as though now, I am taking my first breaths in this life.” 

Christine sipped from the glass, savoring the taste of vermillion upon her lips. “He has changed my life, forever, Claudia. I cannot go back to who I was. I can never return to Paris.” 

Claudia sighed deeply, eyeing the folded parchment upon the table. She stood up again, reigniting the beeswax candles that had since gone out. She could see Christine’s face clearly now, and the scars upon her lips looked healed…and the darkness within her eyes was nowhere to be found. 

“I received a letter, shortly before your arrival, dear. It was addressed to me, from the Comtesse herself. I think…you should read it as well. For it concerns you, and your children.” 

“Claudia, I do not have a care for what that woman has to say! She is nothing but a snake that slinks through tall grass, waiting until the perfect moment to sink her fangs in! She has been nothing but wicked. I refuse to – ” 

“Christine, you must read this! You cannot just run away from your past.” 

Christine’s mouth fell open. “You think this of me? That I meant to run away from who I was? No, Claudia…I was running forward, to find myself! Is that such a horrific act for a woman to do? Is that such a sin that I will never be forgiven?” 

“My dear, I assure you that I will never judge you for what you have done. But the letter, it…it speaks of your parting from the Vicomte. Apparently, straight from the mouth of his mother. I believe it to be a letter threaded with lies. I do not believe her son knows about this letter that has been sent.” 

“Fine,” Christine answered tersely, snatching the parchment from the middle of the table. “I shall read it. Only because I trust your words are true.” 

Claudia watched in the dizzying candlelight as Christine’s eyes moved over each sentence, her mouth falling agape with each word carved out in blood. She let the parchment slip through her fingers once she had finished, and sat in silence, staring down into her cup. 

“She lies. She never has loved me.” 

“I know, dearest…this letter is nothing but a bribe. I fear that your husband does not know she has sent it.” 

“Then what does it even matter? I can be banished from that horrid life, forever! Don’t you see, Claudia? She has given me something precious after all of these years…my freedom! Is that something I should just throw away for the sake of a lie?” 

Claudia’s lips formed a thin line. “Christine, you cannot accept a bribe such as this! You must face him, one way or another. You must tell him why you cannot live his life, anymore. You must have courage if you want to live fruitfully. If you want to continue to be free…and to love with abandon, with peace, and with joy…you must tell your husband the truth, yourself.” 

Christine looked saddened for a moment, but the glaze in her eyes soon passed away. “You are right,” she said finally, taking another sip from the glass. “And I will, Claudia…perhaps I…I should go see him in Paris. Perhaps I should tell him of everything. Then I can be…free, as you said.” 

“Give it time, my love. You must be strong, when you go. And you’ve just begun to gain back who you’ve lost – yourself. Let the Comtesse keep him busy, as she had written…for a month’s time. Then, you shall visit him. And I don’t suggest you go alone.” 

“Erik,” Christine breathed, touching a hand to her chest. “I feel safest with him.” 

“I am not sure…Erik would be the…right person…” 

“Where I go, he will go…wherever I go, I want him there, with me.” 

Claudia sighed raggedly. “I understand, dear child…you love him, truly. But bringing him to confront your…husband? I fear that may end in disaster.” 

Christine sat silently, staring out into the window where the stars crept in across the floor. “There’s a ball, every year. Raoul’s father throws a gala the last month of each summer. I will go then,” she murmured, “and I will tell him of my lover. I will reveal to him what he has done to me. And…I will not stay silent. Not ever again.” 

Claudia watched Christine from across the table, and her heart mourned and sighed. For within Christine’s eyes, within the shape of her lips and the traces of her face, she could see a tiny little girl. A little girl in a ragged white night gown, tearing through the deep of the forest, across wide moors and rugged valleys…clutching only a wooden bird in the palm of her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all that have continued to read and fall in love with my story. Any feedback, comments, or thoughts are all greatly appreciated.


	31. A Word Once Given

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,   
> But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;   
> Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,   
> Then look for me by moonlight,   
> Watch for me by moonlight,   
> I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.” 
> 
> \- Alfred Noyes, The Highwayman

Their parting had been drenched in sweet sorrow, for Erik did not wish to part from her… her skin smelled of lavender and summer wind, leaving his senses drowning in ardent despair. Her lilac perfumed breasts had been his aching desire, and her eyes…those deep brown eyes that begged, that stole, that gave…he could not forget, nor rip himself away from. He loved her more than himself, more than the weaponry that had always fit seamlessly into the callouses of his hands. A blade of love piercing his heart in exchange for his blade that would kill…that would take away life; that would fling its mere mortality into the depths of Heaven or Hell. Yet, the blade of love still held pain, similar to the blade that would kill…but the difference, to him, was that love filled the empty spaces that the silver blade could not. The silver blade lay sheathed and hidden, high up in the tallest room of his house. He dare not hold it in his hands; he dare not look at the inscription carved upon the blade, in fear it might cause his nightmares to worsen. For now, Christine had been the one to soothe his lonely nights; she was the grace and the strength that his soul had thirsted for since his tumultuous childhood. Was it too much, asking to be loved? Was it evil for a man of his stature to ask God for forgiveness? Could a lake of blood be dried up, swallowed by the sun…could he wash his hands clean of the rotting spirit that still clung to his very soul? 

Erik had left her at the doorstep of Claudia’s cottage, squeezing her hand gently before releasing it. The act of this was quite close to his heart; it clarified the bond they had forged through their walks in the pitch-black woods. It was a promise that he gave to her, an unspoken gesture that sang of his love. And when she threw her arms around his neck, he quivered…and he held her. He had uttered the same words that had been spoken numerous times before; 

“I shall meet you upon your tower, and I shall call out your name…you will hear me singing in the midst of the trees. I will come, my love...I shall return to you when the moon hangs as high as the stars.” 

And he had kissed her one last time before fading into the shadows of night. The walk home had been joyful, yet lonesome…for Erik missed the absence of his precious beast that would chase fireflies beside him. He imagined that leaving Magnus overnight would be a gift to the twins; his apology for stealing their mother away without taking them, too. For he loved them! He loved them deeply. They were little visions of their mother; tiny rosebuds that bloomed upward and into the sky. Erik smiled as he walked the forest path, thinking of the twins. How they had asked to ride upon his shoulders, as if he, and only he, could allow them to see past the man-made structures and buildings of the earth, and straight on into the sun. 

He arrived back at his house shortly, for he had been walking at a brisk pace. He was not tired, nor was he drunk from the sips of poison he had stolen earlier on in the evening. His spirit stirred within him, and suddenly he sensed that something stood out of place. The hairs prickled upon the back of his neck, and he froze amidst the pathway to his back door. There, he glimpsed two shadows in the moonlight; one towering over the darkness like a storm cloud, and the other, as delicate as a spring lily. There were shapes of baggage around them; tiny mountains that were outlined by the curve of the moon. 

Erik fingered the small blade he kept hidden upon himself, moving stealthily through the dark; a panther stalking its prey. He edged closer and closer to the figures, his knife brandished in his hand; a gladiator without armor, closing in on the beast that grew thick in the air of the night, released from its cage, thrust into the unknown… 

“Erik, I can see you quite clearly…or have you forgotten how well I see in the dark?” a man’s voice called out, as smooth as the cool rim of a razorblade. Erik almost dropped the knife, blinking slowly as he registered the voice. “Ryker? Is that you, my brother?” 

The two figures stepped forward, out of the void and into the moonlit path. Ryker stood smiling, his white teeth glistening against the shimmers of starlight. His eyes glowed green like a felines’, and Erik could see the familiar scarring around his neck, revealed by his button up shirt that was undone halfway down his chest. 

Erik laughed, throwing back his head as if to howl at the moon. He ran forward, embracing the man that had laughed with him, cried with him, killed with him…all underneath the same bloodshot sky. 

“You received my letter, I see! And here I thought you might be too busy these days for my, well, _personal_ issues,” Erik chuckled, holding Ryker by the forearms as he looked upon his face. Ryker’s skin still shone paler than a dying man’s, and his proud cheekbones still held a single pink scar that stretched across his left eye. 

“The scars on your neck, the rope burns…they have healed faster than I anticipated! Ah, you look well, my friend…almost the same as when I last saw you!” Erik said through a grin, releasing his brother’s forearms. Ryker kept the same wide smile, gesturing grandly to the woman who stood next to him; whose golden locks hung loose in waves so long, they nearly brushed the edges of her hips. 

“This, dear brother, is Jasmine, my lover.” The slender woman stepped forward, extending a hand to Erik. Her eyes were clear but mismatched in color – one, an oceanic blue, and the other, a light brown with a hint of gold. Erik grasped her outstretched hand tenderly and kissed the edge of her knuckles. “It is a pleasure,” he purred, bowing his head slightly. Jasmine blushed deeply and smiled, retracting her hand slowly as Erik’s fingers released her. 

“Ah, you devilish man, you! It seems you can charm any woman you meet!” Ryker laughed as he watched his lover turn the shade of a red rose’s petal. 

“I treat every woman I meet with such dignity,” Erik replied tersely, folding his arms across his chest. 

“Every woman, is that so? Even your dearest… _Aphrodite_? I just so happened to…oh let’s say, run into her at the train station. She has departed for Paris,” Ryker crooned, his voice thick with childlike glee. 

Erik growled in his throat, gritting his teeth at the sound of her name. “What did you say to her? I know you, Ryker…I know you wouldn’t have passed up an opportunity to make her suffer.” 

“Well, you are quite right, my friend. You know me _all_ too well! Perhaps I performed a bit of…oh, shall we call it persuasion? Or, simply…receiving _my_ end of the bargain?” 

“Hm,” was Erik’s gruff response, and he grew quiet for a moment. “I believe it best we continue our conversation inside; the trees have ears and eyes, you know.” 

“Yes, but of course, Erik. And my lover and I have travelled quite far in…such a small amount of time. Jasmine must get some rest.” Ryker ran long pale fingers along the side of his beloved’s face, and her lips curved at the coolness of his touch. 

Erik laughed again. “And you? You do not tire, my brother?” 

Ryker’s emerald eyes flashed. “Never! When I sleep, I never lay for very long. Life is too delicate, too short for sleep. Ah, but you already know this, Erik!” Ryker shook his head as he picked up the only two bags that surrounded them; the first one a dark leather satchel that looked quite heavy, and the second, a large carpet bag, patterned with geranium blossoms. 

The three entered into Erik’s house, which was just as dark as the surrounding night. Erik moved deftly around, lighting oil lamps to illuminate the high ceilings and barren walls – he had not put anything back the way it had been, within his parlor…for there were still piles of broken frames pushed into the corners, stacked with crumpled canvasses and designs; Erik had hastily shoved aside his mess earlier that day in case Christine were to enter his home. But she hadn’t – he had made sure of that. 

All that stood in the blood red parlor were a few black armchairs, and a silken green loveseat. And of course, the floor length mirror still stood at the other end of the room; unbreakable, even throughout the passion of his rage. He did not stare at it, in fear he would see not himself, but the monster that tore apart his creations, his pieces of earth…this strangling monster that even he, himself, feared he had become. 

Ryker seated himself on the loveseat with Jasmine beside him. She looked even smaller seated next to him, wearing a fitted black dress with fringes of lace at the bottom. Her mismatched eyes caught Erik’s, and he realized she had been staring at the burns on his face. She quickly averted her eyes to the floor, and her hand curled around Ryker’s arm, pulling him closer. He smiled at her, then focused snake-like eyes onto Erik. 

“Brother, do you have any gin? Come now, you invite us into your barren house like we are strangers! Give me a drink!” he bellowed, his howl hinting on the edge of laughter, once more. Erik grinned and stood up. “I have a bottle, you bastard! Give me a moment,” he replied coyly, making his way out of the parlor and into the kitchen. He returned with three glasses and a bottle of clear liquid that sloshed as he walked – a bottle filled with fluid that could numb any man’s demons…unless in fact, the man drinking such a substance were a demon, himself. 

“I will not be having a drink,” Jasmine said softly, sweeping a tendril of hair from her face with a pale hand. “Erik, if you please…I wish to retire for the evening. Do you have a room?” 

Erik stood up quickly, nodding his head. “There is a guest room on the second floor that is well prepared. You will find everything you might need…and there is a washroom, of course. Please make yourself as comfortable as possible.” 

Jasmine nodded, staring at him with her oddly colored eyes. She turned to Ryker, kissing him upon his cheek gently. “Goodnight, my love,” she murmured, and he closed his eyes at the touch of her lips. “Goodnight, sweet stars, sweet moon, sweet sky. I shall be up to join you in an hour, or two,” he purred, running a large hand down the expanse of her forearm. She blushed again and picked up her carpet bag, leaving the parlor hurriedly to climb the wooden stairway to the second floor. 

“She is tired, she needs her rest,” Ryker explained, pouring himself some gin into a glass. He sipped it and sighed, running a hand through his coarse black curls that were tied back. 

“Erik, you have summoned me, my brother…and I can never refuse you, this, you know. But I come asking for…something in return.” His green eyes flickered mischievously, and he drank from his glass again. “I have an offer from…an old friend. A job that needs to be done. And I cannot do it alone, you see…” 

Erik drank deeply from his glass, looking immediately cross. “No. I cannot do it. I left the guild years ago; I told him I would never return. You were there, brother. You know I cannot live that life anymore,” he scoffed, his jaw tightening at the offer Ryker had laid out ever so carefully. The room seemed to become more stifling, the more Erik stared into those viridescent eyes. Ryker leaned forward, running a hand across the scarring on his throat. “I sacrificed for you, once…I took these scars when they should have been yours. It should have been your throat, dear brother…” 

“ _You_ decided that, not I,” Erik snapped suddenly, glaring at Ryker from the edge of his armchair. “I did not force you to take that on…you did that yourself. Do not twist the past as if I do not remember.” 

“No one is twisting the past, dear brother…but if I remember correctly, you promised me you would…well, do something for me, when the time came. Whatever I needed, were your exact words, if I am not mistaken. And I know you are not a man to back out of a promise; a life for a life, blood for blood…an eye for an eye. It is simply an…exchange. I received torture in your place, and now I ask something of you…is that too much to ask of you? To keep your promise to me?” 

Erik’s eyebrows furrowed. “What you ask, brother, I cannot do…anymore. I have sworn to someone…very important to me, that I would not be that man, anymore. I cannot. I will not.” 

“Hm,” Ryker laid back into the loveseat, taking another swig out of the glass. “And who is this someone, that you have promised to? I pray it’s not our dear…Anias…” 

“No,” Erik growled. “ _Never_. It is a woman that has come here, recently…and I…well, I have…become quite…er…close with her…” 

“So you are in love with her!” Ryker sprang forward, his eyes glinting sharply in the lamplight. “Oh, my brother, I am truly ecstatic for you, truly I am…but does she not know that all debts must be paid? I am simply the messenger, Erik…it is he, who asks this of me. He knows about our deal; he knows I took the hit when it should have been you. He believes in balance, as you know…all wrongs must be righted, in some form or another. And you…you still have one more wrong that must be fixed. An eye for an eye,” Ryker continued, swirling the clear liquid around in his glass. The bronze glow of the oil lamps gleamed off the shaved sides of his head – a perfect three inches…and the nicks and cuts seemed to radiate like tiny coals in a dimmed fireplace. Ryker smiled again, a wide smile that seemed to pull half his face apart. He raised his eyebrows at Erik, reaching forward and grasping the bottle of gin. He filled his glass to the brim, and sipped deeply into its treacherous depths, drowning himself, again and again… 

“He…he does not know where I am. That is why I came here,” Erik said plainly, running a hand through the slick black of his hair. He sighed, frustrated at Ryker’s words…and worry began to creep into the edges of his mind. 

“Have you told him I reside here? Is this why you’ve come? To collect a debt like a monstrous devil that gathers human souls? I called upon you because you are my brother…yet you come bearing a burden; a burden that you say I must bear.” Erik stood up angrily, slamming his glass onto the rickety wooden table between them. “He does not control me, anymore, Ryker. Do not let him control you as well. You are free, if you choose to be.” 

“That is where you’re wrong, dear brother. And no – I _did_ come to help you, in any way I can. I fear that he had given me this news months ago…but I did not know how to reach you. I never knew where you fled after…well, that fateful night. That was the last time I saw you,” Ryker said through his open smile, his teeth bone white in the flickering light. “Oh, but what a night that was…you and I, we were…unstoppable. No man could catch us. No man could ever compare to us!” 

“Ryker… _I do not need this!”_ Erik’s voice rose in his throat, and he began to pace the emptiness of the room. “I cannot afford to be tangled up in his plans, ever again! He used us, like pawns…he never cared for you, nor for I! He was not a father, he was not a guardian…he was a mad king upon a throne, ordering us to do his bidding in bloodshed! I will not do it. I would rather die,” he spat, wringing his hands behind his back as he paced. 

Suddenly Ryker stood up, flinging his glass against the wall. It shattered into a thousand tiny shards, and Erik froze, staring at him with devilish eyes…eyes that seemed to have darkened in deep anger, in hatred. Ryker’s wide smile had since faded, and now, he bore a menacing glare. “Then you have condemned us both, for fucks sake!” he screamed, his eyes glossed over; a fire against an amber sky. 

Erik advanced on him, taking calculated steps as he clenched and unclenched his bandaged hands. “No,” he said softly, staring into the abyss of a demon’s eyes. 

“No. I have done nothing. I left because I could not bear it, anymore! I wanted a new life, I wanted peace, Ryker! I wanted to be loved for more than how my hands could break a neck…is that too much for a man to ask for? Does it _plague_ you, so? Then you are not the brother I remember!” Erik was shouting now, his words curling off of his tongue like the flick of an ember, burning within a small kitchen’s fireplace…his mother’s kitchen. The coals of her hands gripped his neck as his face throbbed, and the smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. His chest began to heave, and he pulled back his lips, baring his teeth at the pale shadow of a man in front of him. “If you ask this of me, do not call me your brother. Do not! No brother of mine would ask this of me.” 

Surprisingly, Ryker sat back down onto the loveseat, though his expression did not change. “I will not fight you,” he said simply, running long fingers through his dark tresses. “We swore never to fight again. Do you remember?” 

Erik sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow. He felt dizzy, suddenly…and he too, fell back into his armchair. “Yes,” he spoke slowly, as if waking from a dream. “Yes, I remember.” 

“Think about what I’ve said, dear brother. Please. Yet now I’m afraid I must retire, for my lover needs me…she has night terrors, most nights,” Ryker spoke calmly as he stood up, brushing his dark trousers with his hands. “And somehow, I sense…that you have somewhere to be, as well,” his eyes sparkled as his lips folded into a small smile. “I shan’t keep you waiting, _Blutswolf_.” 

As soon as Ryker’s form had disappeared in the shadows of the staircase with his strange leather satchel in hand, Erik fled from the room. He threw open the back door with such force that it screamed upon its hinges; the ghosts of his past resounding into the woods, the bleeding trees, the crying lilies…And he found himself sprinting into the blackened void of path in the woods…running fast, as if a demon chased him and nipped at his heels. He ran until his breath fell short, until his legs began to ache…and only when he broke through the trees did he finally stop, panting and sweating, stinging with wounds from the past, with burns that he could never take off…one upon his face, the other underneath his left pectoral. They burned in sync, with twisted and warped images of nightmarish faces that forced a flood into his mind. He swept them away in a panic, in an insane movement of the mind…the slamming of a door, with the clicking of a lock. He would keep those images locked away forever if it meant one more day, one more night with her…she, who loved him. 

And he looked up into the sky at her balcony, her moon colored tower… She was the only one who could understand, the only one that would see him…that could ever, _truly_ see him. 

And he saw her shape against the diamond crested sky, traced by the edges of stars, and the moon that hung eerily close to the atmosphere. 

And there she waited, for his voice to call out. She waited as if his love had bound her, and he could see a bright smile upon her face, luminescent, as if she sought his form in the dark of the night… 

“Christine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of my amazing readers, and to my lovely lurkers as well. Thank you for going on this journey with me. Any feedback, emotions, or thoughts of any kind are much appreciated.


	32. The Breath of Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I came to you one rainless August night.  
> You taught me how to live without the rain.  
> You are thirst and thirst is all I know.  
> You are sand, wind, sun, and burning sky,  
> The hottest blue. You blow a breeze and brand  
> Your breath into my mouth. You reach—then bend  
> Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.  
> You wrap your name tight around my ribs  
> And keep me warm. I was born for you.”
> 
> \- BENJAMIN ALIRE SÁENZ, “TO THE DESERT.”

As the hour drew impossibly late, Claudia began cleaning up the remnants of stacked dishes that still smelled of potatoes and sliced fish. Christine hastily finished off her glass of wine, and bid Claudia a kiss upon the cheek and a brief goodnight. Claudia gave her a smile, kissing Christine upon her forehead. “Goodnight, my darling,” she murmured; a whisper of love to a daughter she had never possessed, until now. Claudia watched as Christine hurried up the stairs to her room, to her tower…where a Queen might walk upon a pathway made of sky, out into the night air, waiting for her beloved who would be standing below…

And Christine _was_ , in fact, in a hurry. All contents of the Comtesse’s letter were thrown out the window of her mind; a bucket of sludge that was tossed into gutters laden with filth…seemingly, where those curling letters of manipulation belonged. Christine did not care for the lies that were imbedded in the crisp ink, nor did she give further thought to the thickened exploitation and mockery that her shrewd mother-in-law had so carefully etched into yellowed paper.

All that she could see was him. And her heart pounded faster with every step she took, with every inch that dared her heart to trust, to love…for he would wait for her. She would see his hair glisten in the starlight; she would call out his name, and he would look upon her face…each time, as if it were the very first time, in the marketplace…

When the door closed softly behind her, and she was alone with the darkness and the honeyed mist of the stars, her heart could finally sing; she could finally be whole again. For she knew he would come, she knew he would be there, a shadow in waiting, at the threshold of her balcony; running white bandaged hands through the dark of his raven hair.

She tore off the silken dress in a flurry of pale folds; the unclaimed gown of the Duchess…and she gently draped it over the turquoise loveseat that bridged a far corner of the room. It took less than a minute for her to wash up – for her to dampen the skin of her throat with the magenta bottle of spray perfume. The diamond ring still sat on the blue tiled sink, but her eyes did not even notice its gleam. Her spirit had forgotten the ring completely – and what it had bound her to. It had once been a precious gem, a prize upon her hand…But now, it glittered alone in the dark, dying peacefully upon fragmented indigo patterns and swirls. Its life force had been drowned out; strangled and drained of all emotion, of all sharply traceable memories and feeling.

Christine wrapped herself in a light robe that would daintily cover her chemise – another sacred piece that Claudia had given her. It was beige silk, decorated with carefully stitched pink roses, and a train that flowed longer and prouder than the wake of a river.

She padded across the floor, now descending into a dream; for the path of the moon had shown itself – and night after night, she longed for its color, for its ocean of ashen streams to swallow her whole. For she knew where this path would lead her – into the arms of her beloved…beneath a million prickles of stars painted up high in the darkened heavens.

Christine threw open the double doors to the balcony, letting the see-through curtains brush her face as she moved out onto the terrace. The moon shone brightly upon her, and again, she surveyed the entirety of the forest – _her_ forest. The land that had once been so foreign, so unnerving and unfamiliar, was now hers to claim.

And as she waited there, she pulled the train of the robe closer to surround her; a heap of rose petals behind the subtle curves of her figure. She laid her hands upon the railing, searching the grounds of the balcony for the shine of his slicked hair, or the shadow of his curling muscular form that seemed to come alive from the forest itself. It was as if he belonged to the forest, the way he blended in so effortlessly with his black shirt and trousers, and his eyes that shimmered like salt-watered stars.

“Christine.”

Her body reacted to his voice before she could even make out his figure within the darkness. A warmth tinged her cheeks and the tips of her breasts; her body was pleased with the sensual rasp of his calling; with the soft way her name rolled off the edge of his tongue.

“Erik,” she breathed, pressing her naval to the wooden beams of her tower, searching madly for his face beneath the shrubbery and vines. And finally, her eyes rested upon him, and her mouth fell open in horror…for there was deep pain down below, living within his features; moving behind his eyes like the swell of an ocean’s tide. Christine gasped, covering her mouth with a pallid hand. He was covered in sweat, and his hair fell in clusters over the shaved parts by his ears. His jaw was closed tightly as he stared up at her…and his eyes, those everlasting pieces of sapphire that she had loved since the day he parted the seas, the crowd…his eyes were bloodshot and swollen – a beast of the forest that trembled with fear, with panic…and a glossy cloud of darkness that seemed to line the rigid veins of his neck.

“Erik, are you hurt? Stay there, I am coming down to you,” she cried out, her heart pounding and fluttering madly the longer she stared at him. He was wounded somehow; he was in despair, panicked and ripped apart at the seams…and why did it feel as though he were dying as he knelt, down below in the darkness?

Christine turned to go back through the double doors, to rush down the stairs and out into the garden…to run into his arms and to heal him. But she heard his voice call out once more.

“No…let me come to you.”

She slowly turned around. “Yes,” she whispered, running to the edge of the railing again. “Come up to me. Everything will be all right, I promise…just come up, Erik, please…”

It seemed like she had simply blinked, and he was already gone from her sight. Her heart shuddered within her chest, and she flew from the balcony and back across the floor to her room. The train of her robe whipped behind her, swirling around her legs like a torrent of wind. She flung the door to her room open, and there he stood, before her…on the top step of the staircase.

She reached down and took his bandaged hands in her own, staying silent in the still of the room; breathing in his scent as his lips quivered so close to her own. She led him to her bed tenderly, and he sat down beside her…and she waited. She ran her fingers through his tousled hair, still holding onto one of his bandaged hands…stroking the ridges of his knuckles with gentle fingertips.

“I…I had to see you,” he muttered, unbuttoning the top three buttons of his dark silk shirt. Christine’s eyes fell upon the speckled black hair of his chest, and the familiar lightning white scar that she had always loved.

“Erik, you are pale, you look sick…did something happen? Please, tell me…I will make it right. I promise,” she whispered urgently to him, stroking her fingers up and down his bare forearm. He was drenched in sweat, and the fabric of his shirt stuck to his chest as if he had been submerged underwater.

He turned to face her, and touched the side of her face with two fingers. She shivered at the sensitivity of his touch, and her breasts ached under her robe and through her chemise – yearning to be touched by that very same hand.

Erik let his hand fall from her cheek, and he began to undo the bandages that were still wound tightly around his hands. Christine watched him quietly, pressing her shoulder into his so that he might feel her warmth permeate through him…so he could feel her love, the breath of life she so desperately wished to give.

The wrappings fell to the floor in a sweat soaked and rather putrid heap. He held his hands out for her to see what had been underneath, and she almost cried out into the silent void of the room. His knuckles were bruised and swollen, with deep cuts on his fingers and palms that seemed quite fresh. He clenched and unclenched them, wincing in pain.

“This is what I am,” he spoke quietly, staring down at his purpled and swollen hands.

“I have done this. I flew into a rage, last night…I could not control it. I destroyed things that…that I have created. That I have loved. They’re all gone. All of them.”

Christine gently covered his large bruised hand that was closest to her with delicate fingers. “What was it that made you so angry?”

Erik shuddered, and let out a long breath. He still would not look at her. He was ashamed of what he had done, that much was certain…but she did not care. She would not back away from his darkness. No, she would throw herself into it…she would let it swallow her whole. If only it meant being closer to him…she would give him life. She would give her being, for his…if it meant taking the pain away from the depths of his eyes.

“A letter, from the woman I…had loved…the woman from the tavern. She…she took everything from me. And I gave her everything, Christine…I…I gave her things I did not know I _could_ have, things I was unaware that I could feel, anymore…and she betrayed that love… _my_ love. I was nothing, to her…just another moveable pawn in her blood lined realm. And…and…”

“Look at me,” Christine whispered, touching a finger to the tip of his chin. He turned his head, brushing his nose against hers, accidently. At the touch of their noses, Erik almost smiled - for it had been their very first touch, when he had first caught her from height of her balcony.

“You seem dazed,” he whispered suddenly, his eyes almost growing mischievous for a moment. Christine traced his bottom lip with her finger, and he kissed the tip ever so gently. “I would say the same to you, my knight,” she countered back quietly, holding his gaze, inches away from the wet and ardent taste of his kiss.

“Remember how you spoke of me, atop the balcony? How you saw me, for the first time…how you could see my pain, as clearly as I see you now?” she asked, brushing his cheek with her lashes. “This is how I see you. I see your pain…the suffering that woman has caused you. You blame yourself, Erik…you blame yourself for her inability to love you. You think it made you unlovable…you believe it was because you did not deserve it.”

He softly caressed the curve of her neck, and she let out a soft moan, trying to concentrate on the words she felt she must speak. “Erik…you are deserving of love. You desperately _need_ to be loved…but you…you will never have to…to believe anything like that again. For I love you…a thousand times over. I love you,” she murmured, bending down to brush her lips against the bruises on his palms and fingers, “more than you can imagine, more than you can see. It is like an ocean that comes over me, that runs through me…you are at my very core, torturing me every time you leave me…I…I cannot be without you.”

He nuzzled the crook of her neck, nipping at her earlobe, breathing raggedly into her tousled curls. “And I cannot be without you. I…I am ashamed, that I gave her such power. Such power over my anger, my temper…it…it should not be so.”

“No,” Christine whispered, slipping an arm around his neck, pulling herself into his lap. She shuddered at the strength and girth of his legs; her skin screamed and begged to merge with him, to suddenly have him inside her…

“Do not apologize for feeling,” she said softly, pulling herself closer to him. “Never apologize for that. You are human…and she damaged you…but, you can let it go. You can let _her_ go. You can let the past, die…and come live in me…come stay in me as if I were your home. Come open my windows, my doors…thrive inside of me, forever. This, is all that I’ve dreamt of…being here, beside you…in your arms.”

“How is it,” he purred, now rubbing her thighs with unbridled hands, “that you breathe life into me? As if when I leave you, I die every time…but when I see you, your eyes, your mouth…when I hear you speak, when I see your smile…I begin to live, all over again. It is as if…I am being born, each time I see you. Over and over…over…and over…” He growled in her ear, and it spurred the warmth between her legs…Christine gasped of the feeling that began to circulate throughout her body…it was true, as he had said…

His touch made her alive.

She began to kiss him madly, in a frenzy, letting her robe fall from her shoulders like the flutter of a dove’s wings. She grinded against his hips, against the hardness that she felt pressing against the tinge of fire between her legs…she let out a soft moan, and began to pull his shirt from his chest, undoing the last couple buttons while gasping for air.

“Christine,” Erik suddenly steadied her atop him, holding her on his lap with the strength of his arms. “We shouldn’t…I…I would not feel…right…taking you, like this.”

“And why is that? Because I am still a…a Vicomtesse?” she raked a hand through his hair, pulling his head back to look up at her. Her breasts were on fire; they ached and pleaded, needing his touch so badly it burned.

“Because you are still…betrothed. I want you…I have always wanted you. But I want you as mine, truly, as mine…when we make love.”

Erik lifted her off of him gently, setting her on the soft padding of the bed, next to him. He laid down, letting his chest rise and fall steadily, reaching out to stroke a finger down the length of her arm. “Please…do you understand? I love you…but it is because I love you, that I cannot take you, now. I want you as mine. Completely and utterly mine.”

Christine hesitated for a moment, catching her breath as she laid down next to him. “I understand,” she whispered softly, stroking a hand down his bare chest. “But will you stay with me? Until the morning…will you sleep beside me? Will you give me a taste of forever, with you? So that I may imagine it all day long, when you are away…until you come back to me, again?”

“Yes,” he breathed, pulling her into him. She rested her head in the crook of his neck, and he wrapped his arms around her delicate figure. “I will stay with you as long as you wish, my love. Forever, and a day.”

And as their breathing slowed, and the midnight air filled the room with sweet lavender; a purple flower rising upon the breeze…Erik fell into a deep sleep. For there were no more demons, there was no past, there was no panic, no fear, no pain…there was only her.

And two breathed as one, upon the midnight wind. And something within him died, that very night…perhaps it was the look in her eyes, or the sweet promise to be his…

His fear of being unlovable, the fear that had been instilled within him since birth…it had vanished from his heart. For the saddened woman on the balcony had taken it; she had morphed it the way an artist might form a painting, or the way God might form a summer sky…

She had changed the past. And so had he…

 _Her,_ he thought.

_And I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize deeply to those of you out there reading this story. I know it’s been too long since my last update. Life has been crazy, but a good kind of crazy. But, I plan on updating regularly, as per usual…and also working on my other story, Benedictus. Thank you to all who have continued to read and love this story…it is you, the readers, who make my words truly come alive.
> 
> Any feedback, emotions, or comments are always much appreciated.


	33. The Burning Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I think that love is stronger than habits or circumstances. I think it is possible to keep yourself for someone for a long time, and still remember why you were waiting when she comes at last.... I would enter your sleep if I could, and guard you there, and slay the thing that hounds you, as I would if it had the courage to face me in fair daylight. But I cannot come in unless you dream of me.”
> 
> \- Peter S. Beagle

Far into the bellows of night, he awoke with Christine curled tightly in his arms. Her breathing was so soft and slow; it reminded him of autumn wind that swept up leaves into swirls, causing them to fall daintily back down to earth in mismatched smears of paint.

There had been a release in his heart before sleep had taken him; something infinitely larger had consumed him, debating and pushing the darkness out of the edges of his spirit. Was it freedom that he finally felt, or was it merely another tightrope he must cross, eyes closed and wrists bound?

When love had entered Erik’s heart again, he hadn’t been afraid. He had dared it to step closer and closer, urging it forward with his fingers poised like talons – reaching, stretching, wanting! And it had come to him willingly, a strange sort of bird that gave up its home within the sky, fluttering down to settle in the palm of his hand.

Yet something still stirred restlessly within him; something he had left silent when he had entered Christine’s moonlit threshold. The exchange of power, the deal he had made with Ryker…oh, how it ravaged his mind, clogging his thoughts with fear and blood…oh, how it reeked of singed skin and compressed memories of his large veined hands covered in new scars, tissues that would grow and mold into his skin like maggots, eating away at his empathy, his compassion, and his identity…

Panic was not a beast he could scare off so easily. He had felt such bliss with Christine, such beauty and acceptance as he had unwrapped his bandages. Even now, as he lay close to her with his hands bare, the open scabs seemed strangely bold against her smooth pale skin. _You will damage her. It’s what you always do._

The anticipation of going back to Germany with Ryker sent his thoughts into a crazed sort of circus; the kind where wild animals gnawed upon the flesh of the onlookers, and the ringmaster’s cackle resounded again and again, a howl that was devilish and filled with blackened spite. But underneath the truth of it all, Ryker had taken torture in his place. Erik tried to block the memory out of his mind, but the appearance of Ryker’s scars left him trembling, bringing his old life back to light…and all of the horrific images that came with it.

It had been a cage. A looming iron cage with a long rope coiled inside, a sandy yellow cobra waiting to flare its magnificent and terrifying head. There had been no time – there had been screaming all around, and gunshots that seemed to be only seconds away from where they were crouched, frozen with the fear of failure, the panic of being caught upon a job. Once Erik had seen the cage before them, he knew the kind of torture that might await them, and he had begun to shake uncontrollably. Ryker had grabbed him by the arm, digging fingernails into his flesh that he still could still almost feel…

_Go, Erik…Go now!_

Erik had shaken his head feebly, refusing to submit to the terrors of being trapped, of his mother holding his head down into the fireplace where there was no escape. His fingers had quivered so badly that he had dropped his knife; the silken serrated blade that had been his right hand. Ryker snatched it up within his mind’s blurred eye, shoving it into his hand and pressing his fingers around it violently.

_Erik, go now. I will escape…just leave, now! You have a woman, a future…leave while you still can. Consider this my gift to you brother…stop thinking! Stop thinking and go! RUN!_

Erik had nodded numbly like a child given instruction by a father. The screaming still filled his ears as he looked into his brother’s emerald eyes one last time – would it be the last time? And why couldn’t he stay and fight…why couldn’t he have fought for Ryker’s freedom?

It was he who had taken Erik’s place in the cage. He, who had lived with a rope as a collar, he who had sported the scarring of the choking and pulling…he, who had taken disgusting humiliation upon himself when it should have been both of them…

_It should have been me._

The thoughts would not stop, then. Once the memory had slipped its forked tongue into the recesses of his mind, his breathing would not slow down, and he could not stop shaking. He was living the nightmare again, now…over and over, played in a pathetic and horrifying loop. He began to imagine himself with those same scars, and suddenly his throat was covered in them, and he was clawing at his neck trying to rip them away…

“Erik! Erik, look at me!” Christine’s face was swimming above his, as if he were deep underwater, nailed to the ocean floor and left to drown. He gasped for air, prying at the skin on his neck repeatedly, whimpering and crying when he could not get those scars to come off! They lived in the very recesses of his soul, now!

“Erik, my love, breathe…” he felt her voice close to his ear, and then he was rising to the surface of the water, he would breathe, yes…He would live, but not without burden…not without those terrible worm-like scars that plagued the depths of his heart.

He sat up abruptly as if waking from a dream, looking wildly around the room. Christine had her hands within his, and her face was bone white with beads of sweat lining her forehead. “Erik,” she spoke gently, lifting a hand to stroke his forehead. “I am here, with you…you are safe, my love…”

He looked down into his lap to where his arms hung uselessly, and his fingers were covered in blood. “How…” he asked softly, not even daring to look into her eyes. “My, my throat…” he stammered, reaching up to touch the skin. He pulled his hand back and found more blood – he had ripped his throat open with his fingernails, caught in the midst of his own living nightmare made of scars that should have been his…

“Christine,” he murmured quietly, suddenly embarrassed of his fit, of his terrors that had come alive in front of her…had he not shown her enough darkness? Would she lay with him longer, would she blot his throat with her love…or would she cast him out? Would she never again wait for him at the threshold of the moon where he would emerge from the forest, a living shadow formed from Hell?

“What is it? Tell me, please, love…you had a nightmare,” she explained patiently. Oh, what kindness he could feel in the honeyed tone of her voice! What soft and ardent love he could feel, what unconditional and savage love she showed that ripped his heart into pieces!

Erik laid back down into the sheets, finally meeting her eyes with his own. Those eyes of hers, those gorgeous and precious stones of dark amber; they seemed to hold all the love and sadness in the world. As she ran a hand over his chest, he could feel power within the simple touch of her hand…power that could take his own away.

“I must speak of something,” he rasped, breaking the steady contact of her eyes to stare up at the ceiling. It had ridges within its surface, he noticed…similar to a painted mountain on a canvas. He willed himself to breath steadily as she let her hands rest upon his chest, trying to undo the tangled lines of string that were thoughts now flitting about freely in the night air.

“I know I promised you something. But I must take that promise back.”

There was a silence that stretched out into darkness as he waited for her reply. His heart pounded in his chest still, afraid to even explain the things he had seen while awake, afraid to admit to her how very deformed and twisted he felt inside, even after all the time that had passed…

“What…what promise?” Her voice quivered. “The promise to…to love me?”

He sat up violently then, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Her hands were forced to leave him, and he whirled upon her in anger, clenching his bloodied hands in front of his face like the irrational beast that he was.

“Do you doubt my love for you?” he snarled, his words whipping the smooth of the air as he paced the room back and forth. “Do you think me a liar, now? My promise to you will always remain. I speak of my past, my old life…why would I wake with blood at my throat for your love? Or do you truly think me vindictive or sinister? Did you lie when you said you would stay no matter the cost?”

Christine’s face fell as his words sliced into her, and immediately he hated himself for what he had done. He had defiled her sweet bed sheets and perfect skin with his own blood – wherever he went, there always seemed to be blood!

“You do not have to speak to me that way,” she finally spoke, furrowing her brow at him. “Erik, please come sit next to me…just come breathe. You had a nightmare, let me calm you, please…”

“I am calm,” Erik retorted, continuing his pacing. Pacing was something that straightened his thoughts, that cooled the mind like a splash of gin mixed with morphine…he grasped his hands behind his back, shaking his head as he walked the entire length of the room, and back again, over and over…her concern and the soft curve of her body made him loathe himself further…if he had only stayed, if he had suffered with Ryker, he would not have a deal to uphold…he would only have Christine! But his nerves controlled him like his mother’s laughter, and his hands had shaken so hard he had dropped his blade…never once had he let it fall from his fingers, before…

“My brother took torture in place of me! Can you believe it?” he muttered angrily, running a bleeding hand through his tousled hair. “He took it, he told me to run, to leave…I smelled smoke in the air. I smelled it burning in my lungs, Christine…as if she was still there, behind me…waiting to push me into the coals!”

“Erik, love…” she responded slowly, her form glowing against the rise and fall of the white curtains hanging from the open balcony. “Please, come sit with me, lay down with me…and tell me everything…please.”

He stopped his pacing suddenly and glared at her; how perfect she was, how simply elegant and beautiful and compassionate! It angered him further to think that she had loved another…another that had fathered her children, another that had given her life! How could he, the coward who ran from the smoke and the screams; how could he, the man drained of all power in an instant, the one who left his brother behind to be caged and pulled by the neck…

How could he ever deserve her love?

“I’m not good enough for you, I never will be! You deserve a man who does not falter, who does not flee, Christine…I ran when he told me to run, don’t you see? He has taken humiliation that should have been mine! And he came to me with scars on his throat…I should have had those scars too! But I was a child, a little boy with fear in his heart. I will never be whole. I will be broken, forever…” he slowly began to crumble to the floor, unable to stop the flow of tears that now blurred the entirety of his vision. “I have to go back,” he sobbed, biting his lip to ease the pain of his heart. “I have to make things right. I have to do this for him, please understand…I have to…”

She had flown to his back, wrapping her arms around him to hold him, to make him safe, to make him feel whole again. “You are more than enough for me,” she whispered, kissing his neck, behind his ear; pressing her lips to his flesh that crawled with disgust, with hatred of himself. “I do not care that you left, Erik…I care about your heart. I want you to make things right, if you need to. I want you to feel whole. But never believe that anything might tear us apart; never believe that I will suddenly stop loving you. I cannot,” she breathed into him, rubbing a hand down the expanse of his wide shoulders and back, “and I will not ever stop loving you. There is my promise. And remember it when you are frightened, when you look around and all you see is darkness. Remember these words, my love…remember my spirit that is bound to yours.”

Erik’s tears had slowly subsided, and he turned toward her where she sat nestled into his back. “My temper is like the devil,” he whispered shamefully, pressing his head into her breast. “It will damage you, and…and I am afraid.”

Christine held his head to her chest, letting him breathe in the sweet scent of her peace. “Nothing is more damaging than hating who you have been, Erik…than loathing the things you have done.”

“Please,” he whispered, a single tear dripping down his damaged cheek and onto her thigh. “Let me make things right. I must do this. I cannot change the past, Christine…but I can right the wrongs that I’ve done. Perhaps it is just a small drop in a large pool of it all…but still. He comes into my presence and all I see is my failure. All I see is how I left him alone, I left him to be caged…please…I know I promised you, I know…”

“It is all right,” she murmured, kissing the edge of his chin that was wet with tears. “Let us make this the last promise of your past. Once you have righted this wrong, it will be the start of our new life, together…and Erik, I still have one more wrong to make right as well. You forget,” she smiled at him, touching his bottom lip with her forefinger.

“No, I have not forgotten,” he answered, nuzzling his head into the crevice of her neck. She rested her chin in the smooth velvet of his black hair.

“Go, my love,” she whispered. “Do what you must do. But please…let this be the last of it all. And before you go…I wish to sleep with you, just one more night. Let me memorize the taste of your skin, let me remember the feeling of your arms wrapped around me. So when you leave, I will still have you with me, around me…I will remember the sweet savor of your love upon my heart.”

Erik nodded, his eyes swollen and his lips bitten up. He kissed her then, and her compassion ran through him like a powerful current. Her fingers touched and soothed when he had tried hating; her words had stayed calm and soft when he had been snarling.

Could there be a love more divine, than this? For she took the parts of his soul that were misunderstood, that were hateful, and loathsome, and terrible…and she stitched them up, a seamstress of God…pressing parts of him back together, running her fingers over shards of his flesh that deserved scarring and torture, giving him hope that some things could be everlasting, that some things could truly be made anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long expanse of not updating! I hope all of you out there enjoyed this chapter. Please feel free to leave feedback :)


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